


green is definitely a shade of red

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Gen, let me have my locus redemption arc, some background grimmons bc come on, some light bitthews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 21,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: When he finally gets cornered by the Reds and Blues, bleeding and wounded, back to an unclimbable cliff, armor and thus stealth unit out of power, one bullet left in his gun, six colorful sim troopers and two freelancers surrounding him, the orange one speaks up first. “Dibs.”“Dibs!?” the aqua one repeats incredulously.“You heard me,” Captain Grif says calmly. “Dibs.”-Locus gets adopted by the Reds.





	1. the international dibs protocol is in effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The glorious Red army wrestles yet another victory from the cluthes of the deplorable Blue army, using time honored Red tactics. Such as 'spouting total nonsense' and 'being a huge pain in the ass'.

When he finally gets cornered by the Reds and Blues, bleeding and wounded, back to an unclimbable cliff, armor and thus stealth unit out of power, one bullet left in his gun, six colorful sim troopers and two freelancers surrounding him, the orange one speaks up first. “Dibs.”

“Dibs!?” the aqua one repeats incredulously.

“You heard me,” Captain Grif says calmly. _“Dibs.”_

“You can’t just call dibs!”

“The hell I can’t! Sarge!”

“As much as I hate to agree with Grif in any way whatsoever, I have to say that the international dibs protocol is in effect even here on Chorus and so--”

“What the hell are you idiots talking about?” the other aqua one demands. The Freelancer one.

Locus would like to know that as well, to be perfectly honest.

“We've still only got the original Blood Gulch crew, we need new blood. Blue team always gets the powerful new members!” Captain Grif exclaims.

“Agent Texas,” the maroon one, Captain Richard Simmons chimes in.

“Agent Washington,” the red confusingly named Colonel Sarge continues smoothly.

“And Agent Carolina too!” the pink Private Donut concurs.

“Well, that’s debatable,” Sarge contradicts him in a rush.

“The fuck it is! She’s wearing aqua! Or teal, or seafoam or some shit. That’s blue!” Captain Tucker argues.

“Ah, but then why did she dye her hair red? Checkmate, blue!” Sarge chuckles smugly.

Captain Tucker looks like he’s gearing himself up to argue the point further, until Agent Washington interrupts sternly. “Locus is not going on the Red team.”

“New friend!” cheers Captain Caboose.

“Or the Blue team!”

“New enemy!” cheers Captain Caboose.

“No! _Neither_. And we’re not enemies any longer!”

“Officially, at least,” Sarge grants with a generous sort of air.

“Wait, wait, I’m confused,” Captain Caboose says. “So… we’re sharing him? Like with Doc?”

“Oh, like that worked out well!” Captain Simmons says. “That just ended up with no one using him, now that we have medical professionals with actual degrees.”

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” Sarge agrees. “It’s Red or dead! I mean Blue.”

“Except for Carolina, apparently,” Captain Grif mutters.  

 _“No one is having him!”_ Agent Washington shrieks. “He’s going to _jail.”_

“Aw, come on, Wash,” Private Donut says. “I’m getting a pretty strong ‘capable of redemption’ vibe from him!”

“Yeah, like with _you_ ,” Captain Tucker says pointedly. “Mister ‘legally supposed to be incarcerated’.”

Agent Washington sputters.

“This is insane,” Agent Carolina says. “Remember a very short while ago when he tried very, very hard to kill us all?”

“Yes!” Captain Caboose answers happily. “Like with Agent Washington!”

“That’s not what I--”

“And he became our very good friend after we made his armor blue for a while and hid him from the jail men!”

“The filthy blue’s right!” Sarge says. “Except this time we’re making his armor red!”

“I like my armor,” Locus finally speaks up, confused and more than a little bit dazed. The blood loss may have something to do with that. Agent Washington can throw those knives a shocking distance. He has a feeling he’d be pretty lost right now in this conversation anyways, though.

“That’s alright, son!” Sarge reassures him. “Green is definitely a shade of red.”

“No it’s not, it’s on the cooler end of the color spectrum!” Captain Tucker snaps.

“You get green when you mix yellow and blue,” Captain Caboose says.

“Well that can’t be right since you said it,” Captain Grif says.

“No, no, he’s actually right!” Private Donut says. “Trust me, I know my color theory!”

“HA. IN YOUR RED FACES.”

“Yellow goes beneath the red color umbrella!” Captain Simmons states as authoritatively as he can seem to manage.

“Wrong again!” Captain Tucker crows triumphantly. “Sister’s yellow and she’s a Blue!”

“Yeah, well, she’s color blind, asshole!” Captain Grif returns.

 _Good god,_ Locus thinks. _Does my entire fate hang in the balance on these people's grasp of color theory?_

“I give up,” Agent Washington says with infinite tiredness. Agent Carolina makes a frustrated noise and just outright _leaves_.

“You hear that, men?” Sarge asks. “Blue team leader gives up! Yet another glorious victory for the Red Army!” 

"Annoying the enemy until they want nothing to do with you more than they want to win. _Classic_ Red move," Captain Grif agrees. 

 _“Fuck,”_ Captain Tucker curses. “Whatever, we didn’t really want him anyways. Carolina'sdefinitelyBluethough!”

“That’s right!” Captain Caboose sniffs. “See you at training tomorrow, Mercenary Locus!” he says to him with an entirely different attitude. “I can’t wait to get to know you!”

“Welcome to the team, son,” Sarge says with gruff warmth, holding out his hand to help him up. Locus stares dumbly.

“Get ready to carry it for the rest of your life!” Captain Grif tells him gleefully. “We’re living on easy street now, Simmons. It's about time Red team got a hyper competent slash violent overdramatic super soldier of their own. ”

“Hi, it’s so nice to have you on the team!” Private Donut gushes. “That breakup you pulled on Felix was _brutal. ‘I’m doing this for me’,_ oh my gosh, so independent! You’re way too good for him anyways, totally the right move.”

“This is your life now,” Captain Simmons with a suffering sort of sympathy. “And you haven’t even met the pissy Spanish robot yet.”

Locus takes Sarge’s hand. He blames it on the blood loss. 


	2. being heard and understood sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus has, in fact, already met the pissy Spanish robot.

_“OH GOD,”_ Lopez shouts after one long shocked moment of staring at the mercenary that just entered the room. _“I’M GOING TO DIE.”_

“I knew you’d be excited, Lopez!” The red idiot claps a hand on Locus’ shoulder. Lopez waits expectantly for his arm to be ripped off. It doesn’t happen, for some reason. “Say hello to the newest member of Red team!”

“Finally, I’m not the rookie!” Donut says cheerily. “Hey, R--”

“If you call me rookie--” Locus starts in his de facto threatening rumble.

“You do not even have to finish that threat, message _received._ Buddy it is!” And then he runs away, the first smart thing he’s ever done in his life.

Locus gives off a palpable air of ‘I suppose I’ll settle for that.’

 _“How the hell did you manage to get Kimbal to agree to let you keep someone who’s been literally trying to murder the entire planet for years now?”_ Lopez asks, and honestly, why does he even bother? He’s basically just talking to himself.

“Great plan, Lopez! I’ll go get the butter.” And then the idiot _leaves,_ and Lopez is left no only dreading whatever plan he just ‘proposed’ that he’ll be undoubtedly roped into/blamed for, but he’s also left with the mercenary unsupervised. Oh god, is _he_ supposed to be the supervision? He’s so dead. Everyone is so, so dead.

“I’m honestly not sure how they pulled it off,” Locus says. “I was excluded from the conversation for obvious reasons. I can only assume that they burned the majority of their political capital on me. I’m not sure why they did that either, except to maybe use me as bragging material on the Blues? I thought the Reds and Blues were one single unified group.”

HOLY SHIT HE’S BILINGUAL. Right, right, Lopez has already had this realization. He spends a moment to let the shock dissipate and then realizes, hey, he just got an answer to one of his questions! That’s happened… never? He basks in the warm glow of actually have a not-one-sided conversation for once before he answers. _“They may be a single group now, but they haven’t been unified a single fucking days of their moronic lives.”_

That may not be true, but Lopez doesn’t care. What he cares about is Locus’ responding grunt, the knowledge that _he actually heard and understood what he said._

They’ve spent almost five minutes in each other’s presence, and Lopez is still alive. Maybe… this might be a good thing?

“They are pretty moronic,” Locus agrees. “Even though they took all of my weapons they didn’t think to take my stealth unit from me, just because my armor’s out of power. Speaking of which, I heard you’re the mechanic around here. The mechanic that no one but me can understand around here, at least. Not much time for people to learn a second language when they’re growing up in a civil war, you know?” He slips into Spanish. _“Now help me power up my armor or else I’ll kill you.”_

Ah, there it was.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT BUTTER?”

“Well, Lopez and I--”

“LOPEZ, GET OVER HERE.”

“You can wait until Kimball’s finished dressing you and Colonel Sarge down,” Locus says.

Lopez wants to fire off a line about oh how _generous_ he was, but he remembers just in time that he’d actually understand the insults Lopez was flinging at his face. And then he'd likely get his head removed from his body. Again. 

Being heard and understood sucks. Being not heard and understood sucks as well. _Everything sucks._ Lopez should have learned that this is how his life will always be a long time ago.


	3. so long as you’ve got nothing against puke-green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lopez is NOT bad at charades. It's everyone else who's bad at charades. Also, Donut gets a roommate.

Rationing is a way of life during war, and the aftermath of war. Food, ammo, clothes. Space. Roommates are commonplace and reasonable.

Locus had expected to end up rooming with one of the Reds, as he wasn’t to be trusted without constant supervision, the feds and rebels were all scared of him, and the Reds were too suspicious to let him bunk with any of the Blues. There weren’t really a whole lot of good options to choose from, but still. This seems like a bit much.

“It’s okay if you want to top, I prefer bottoming!” Private Donut informs him cheerily. 

Locus waits for one long moment for him to clarify himself before he gives up on prods him into it. “You mean with the bunks.”

“Why, yes! What else could I mean?” He blinks at him innocently, and Locus squints at him with deep suspicion.

“... What’s going to happen now?” he asks eventually. Is it time to eat yet? To be drilled for any potential information he may have on Hargrove’s whereabouts?

“I am so glad you asked,” Private Donut turns his back on him to go and rifle through a bag. It is truly incredible how many openings he has given Locus to murder him in the last ten minutes. Of course, he’d then have to battle his way through hundreds upon thousands of feds and rebels, which he doesn’t think he can quite manage without his stealth unit or any weapons. Also. He doesn’t really. Want to. Locus is still thinking over his position on murder now that Felix is gone. If he wants to do it at all, in which situations and to which people he thinks it's appropriate to inflict it on, whether or not he’s going to kill for money again. What he’s going to do for a living if the answer turns out to be no.

He’s not going to kill someone just because he was ordered to, at least. That he’s sure of.

Private Donut turns around with a dazzling smile and about half a dozen colorful bottles in his hands. “Are your really married to _that_ exact shade of green?” he asks, emphasis put on ‘that’ in a way that makes Locus think that Private Donut doesn’t think much of the shade of green on his armor.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks, sincerely confused and also sort of defensive? This entire situation is ridiculous.

“Oh, nothing!” Private Donut rushes to reassure him. “I mean so long as you’ve got nothing against puke-green…”

“What was that?”

“NOTHING I SAID NOTHING. Okay, but, how about glitter then?”

* * *

 

“Ummm… Michael Jackson!”

“No, no, that’s not a dance move! I think he’s drawing an X!”

“What, so we’re on the wrong track?”

Lopez stomps his foot and furiously shakes his head, thinks for a moment, and then follows it up with a furious tirade of swears at them since hey, why the fuck not.

“Yeah Simmons, I think he’s trying to say we’re on the wrong track!”  

WHY WAS IT SO HARD TO MIME ‘LOCUS IS MAKING ME REPAIR HIS ARMOR FOR HIM UNDER THREAT OF DEATH HELP ME’?

Probably because the people he was trying to mime it to were idiots. Definitely not because Lopez was bad at miming. Nope.

“This is the worst game of charades ever,” Simmons says.

“Yeah, you suck, Lopez,” Grif agrees.

“He’s not so bright.” Simmons shakes his head mournfully. Like Lopez _can’t fucking understand what he’s saying._

 _“Actually, you know what?”_ Lopez says, purely for his own benefit to be honest, he fucking hates everything and everyone but especially these two idiots right now. _“I_ am _going to fix his armor and I hope he slits both of your throats on the way out. Good riddance.”_

“Talk about a sore loser,” Grif comments as Lopez stomps off to his workshop.

"Technically, he just won." 

"Techically, I thought we agreed that the nearest available Red had to punch you in the arm whenever you say the word technically." 

"That was the wrong use of the word tech-- ow!" 


	4. your corpse isn’t cooling in a broom closet somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif weighs the odds. Was a probable horrible death REALLY worth possibly snatching himself a few extra flapjacks? The answer is obvious.

“Nice manicure, Locus,” Grif says.

Locus gives him a Look. His Looks have always been terrifying from across the battlefield before, but somehow, across a cafeteria table, and without a helmet it gets _worse._ Much, much worse.

“Oh wow hey, food! Time to focus on just that for the rest of the meal.” Grif decides not to say anything more for the rest of his lunch break, which is just fine by him. His mouth’s got more important thing to occupy itself with than half assed insults which’ll get himself gruesomely murdered.

“Well, at least someone appreciates my work,” Donut sniffs.

“Wait, wait,” Simmons says. “So you’re telling me that for the last hour _you’ve_ been his only supervision?”

“That’s right!” he answers cheerily. Even a food-distracted Grif can tell how fucking stupid _that_ idea was. But hey, Donut _hadn’t_ been murdered and then had his cooling corpse unceremoniously stuffed in a broom closet somewhere (only god knew why not), so what did he know? Best just stay out of it and mind his own business. Like naps, and eating.

“I don’t understand why your corpse isn’t cooling in a broom closet somewhere,” Simmons says despairingly.

“Probably because Locus is a good person deep, deep, deep, deep, _deep_ down,” Donut says with great conviction. Locus looks vaguely offended, which Grif thinks is fair, even if he _had_ tried to kill an entire planet for money. There was just something incredibly offensive about Donut’s completely sincere backhanded compliments that made you want to murder him even if the unintended hidden insult was completely deserving (which just made it worse, really) or even still pretty generous in comparison to reality.

Grif wonders if Locus is distracted enough that he’d get away with stealing his food.

“And also because I give a bitching manicure! Check those babies out, glitter really _can_ fix any color.”

Probably not. Badass super competent mercenary and all.

“What’s wrong with this color.”

But… maybe?? He did look pretty distracted.

“Holy shit, that wasn’t even pretending to be a question, was it? Wait, no, I wasn’t trying to involve myself in the conversation, I don’t want anything to do with this. Ignore me. Wow, I never thought I’d say that.”

No, no. He’d _kill_ him. Grif would fucking die. It wasn’t worth it.

“Oh, nothing! As long as you don’t have anything against…”

Was it?

“Anything against _what.”_

It was flapjacks day. Of fucking course it was.

Grif’s hand snaps out towards Locus’ tray, and his wrist is instantly trapped in a vice-like grip. OH SHIT NOT WORTH IT.

“IT’S PUKE GREEN,” Simmons abruptly shrieks before standing up and sprinting away. Locus’ grip seems to have loosened enough with surprise that Grif can wrench himself free and sprint away as well. He may hate running, but when he has to he puts his all into it.

“It’s not _puke_ green…” he hears muttered after him.

“Thanks, Simmons!” he calls out, he’s _that_ relieved about getting to live to laze around another day. He’d even managed to grab one of Locus’ flapjacks on the way out. Priorities. 


	5. with one of our allies who is definitely not under duress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus has a counseling sessions with Doc. Unfortunately, O'Malley makes an appearance.

“Some people are… _concerned_ about your presence here.”

To put it mildly. Both Feds and Rebels alike flinched away from him in the hallways, the only exception seemingly being the Reds and Blues, who mostly all did flinch as well, but that didn’t seem to be enough to keep them from being idiots to his face anyways.

“So we’re having a counseling session!” Doc said with ruthlessly determined cheerfulness. “To help reassure everyone that we’re working on your mental health.”

“I’m being kept here against my will,” Locus reminded him, half convinced he didn’t know it from the way he spoke.

“So what was your childhood like?” he asked, and wow, he was pretty good at hearing only what he wanted to hear.

“What was _your_ childhood like?”

“DON’T TRY AND CHANGE THE SUBJECT, FOOL.”

God, he did not need a whole lot of provocation, apparently.

“You’re British now?”

Doc lunged at him with a shout.

* * *

 

“I don’t understand. He manages to beat Wash in hand to hand combat, but he ends up being hospitalized after a fight with _Doc?”_ Locus heard dimly, eyes still closed, waking slowly and, by habit, careful not to move a muscle to indicate that he was even a fraction more aware than a rock. The voice sounded familiar. Flapjack thief.

“Well, to be fair he hospitalized Doc back. And he didn’t have his armor on him while Doc _did.”_ And god did he fight shockingly ferociously. “Speaking of which, where _is_ his armor?” Locus identified the other voice as flapjack thief’s friend/possible lover.

 _“With one of our allies who is definitely not under duress,”_ a familiar robotic voice said sarcastically in Spanish. Ah, Lopez. Probably here to tell him that he was done repowering and tuning up his armor, and that he definitely didn’t need to do anything drastic like kill any harmless robot mechanics.

Locus allowed his eyes to open to see that the other two Reds were there as well. He blinked, briefly startled.

“Oh thank goodness!” Donut exclaimed, clutching a bouquet of roses and a teddy bear. Sarge was holding a fruit basket and a balloon that said ‘GET WELL SOON!’ in bubbly red font with an expression fit for a military funeral, face so stoic Locus felt like he could strike flint on it and get sparks.

“I always knew that boy had more Blue than Red in him,” he said grimly.

“You said the opposite thing the last week, Sarge,” Grif said dryly.

“I think it depends on who Doc’s most recently attacked,” Simmons mused. “And whether or not Sarge’s joints are acting up, and the weather.”

“You brave, brave soldier,” Sarge said, tearing up in a manful sort of way.  “We’ll make sure to get you out of here _pronto.”_

“Doctor Grey said you had to stay here for the rest of the month for your own good,” Simmons apologetically corrected Sarge.

God damn it, and he’d just gotten out of the infirmary too. Wait--

 _“This is_ not _my fault, I fixed the armor! You’d have been able to escape this place_ today _if it weren’t for that purple moron.”_

Locus hit his head against the bedframe with a frustrated groan, and Donut sympathetically patted his leg (which was in a cast, he noticed). Grif stole the grapes from his fruit basket, while Sarge seemed to be less _signing_ one of his casts and more just coloring it in with a red marker he’d seemingly had on him just in case. Lopez left the room in a fashion he probably imagined to be stealthy (robots were so _clanky)._

“Not very talkative, are you,” Simmons commented. 


	6. oldest slimiest trick in the blue book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker makes a token attempt to lure Locus over to the Blue side. He's never been particularly persuasive, for a diplomatic ambassador.

Why. 

“Well,  _ I _ think they’re nice,” Captain Tucker says indignantly, placing the bouquet of blue roses on a nightstand besides his sick bed. “Dick.” 

Right, right, his facial expressions were visible now. Wonderful. 

“Anyways,” Captain Tucker went gamely on, forcing the conversation onwards despite zero encouragement from Locus himself. “How’s Red team treating you? I see no dramatic weeping at your bedside.” He tsked. “You wouldn’t get that treatment from  _ Blue _ team. We’ve got the  _ monopoly _ on dramatic weeping. Dramatic anything, really. How many angsty monologues have you been able to belt out since you joined Red team? I--” 

Locus listened dully to what he was slowly realizing was a sales pitch. 

“You’re attempting to poach me,” he finally spoke, interrupting the steady stream of words. “Why. I’m practically immobile. And uncooperative. And I don’t consider any of you my allies.” 

“Honestly, at this point it’s mostly just a Blue versus Red thing.” Captain Tucker leaned in uncomfortably close and loudly whispered, _“Join_ _usssss.”_

“WHAT THE DEVIL IS THIS?” a familiar gruff cried out with the most concentrated amount of pure indignation Locus had ever encountered before in his life. 

Captain Tucker jumped up out of his seat hastily. “Sarge! Hey! Just visiting this poor sick guy--” 

“More like you was  _ poaching, _ dirtbag!” Sarge snapped in a way that sounded irrationally paranoid, even though Locus knew that he was actually right on the money. “Blue roses!” He made a spitting sound, hopefully not _ actually _ spitting inside of his helmet. “Oldest, slimiest trick in the Blue book.” 

“You’re holding red roses!” So he was, two dozen of them. They dwarfed the blue bouquet. 

“As God intended! Roses aren’t supposed to be blue! It’s unnatural!” 

“You know what this is some of the dumbest shit I’ve ever pulled, now that I think about it. I’m just gonna--” 

They end up getting into what they would probably call an epic battle but what Locus (and any other outside observer) would call a brief slap fight as Tucker tries to shove his way past Sarge out of the doorway. 

“Honestly,” Sarge huffs. “Why didn’t you start cryin’ for help once the damn Blue showed up?” 

Because Locus has never cried for help once in his life. Because the only thing he was in danger of was being annoyed, which is unavoidable at this point anyways. 

“I just thought he was my new guard,” he says instead, diplomatically. 

“What?” Sarge asks, replacing the blue flowers with his own. 

“Since no one else was here,” he elaborated. He wonders how Captain Tucker managed to pull that off, actually. Was there some passed out soldier tied up in a storage room somewhere? 

“Boy,” Sarge pulled himself a seat. “We just figured you wanted some alone time! We’ve been hovering over your bedside for days now, as if you were gonna’ croak at any moment. Being coddled like that ain’t good for a man. Soldier. Red?” 

Locus frowns. “So… you weren’t guarding me?” 

“... No? Just visiting. Oh, is that something we shoulda’ done?” 

What’s with the weird warm feeling growing in his chest? Is it nausea? 

Locus doesn’t get the chance to interrogate any of the medical personnel about his symptoms due to the chaos that springs up when Sarge lights the blue bouquet on fire and sets off the fire alarm. 


	7. a pilfered scalpel stuffed down one of his casts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus has some "alone time". Locus does not know what he's supposed to be doing during "alone time". Locus hates "alone time" with a burning passion. 
> 
> Locus is DEFINITELY not lonely.

His glittery green nail polish is starting to flake. Whatever. Locus spends his “alone time” trying to figure out just what exactly Red team thinks he’s supposed to be doing during his “alone time”. He has an arm and a leg in a cast, most of his ribs are broken, and Doctor Grey still has him under observation to see if his concussions gone away yet. That takes away training. He’s skilled in cleaning his guns with only one hand (in case that was a thing he ever needed to do, which he actually has had to do more than once), but Locus isn’t supposed to have guns. He doesn’t think he’s technically allowed to have a pilfered scalpel stuffed down one of his casts either, but he has limits.

Training and weapon maintenance are the sum of Locus’ hobbies when he doesn’t have a mission to carry out or biological needs to satisfy. As he doesn’t have training, weapon maintenance, a mission, or biological needs (or attention grabbing idiots) to distract him, he can’t stop himself from acknowledging that that's actually kind of sad. And ugh, talking about attention grabbing idiots, how long until one came to visit him again? To distract him from his thoughts (and --god forbid--   _emotions)_ if nothing else. Sarge was banned from the infirmary now, so he was right out. Maybe if Grif (and Simmons, seemingly glued to his hip) came he’d take some of the awful hospital food off of his hands. If Lopez came he could badger him with questions about his armor. Or if Donut visited, maybe he’d bring his little bottle of glitter green nail polish and fix the flaking coating on Locus’ nails…

Oh god.

Oh _god._

He was lonely.

He was craving company. _Specific_ company. And when had he started mentally referring to the Reds by just their names anyways? They were _insidious._

Locus recalled Grif and Simmons frantically screaming insults at each other while running away from him even though he hadn’t even stood up to chase them and if they’d just glance backwards they’d _see that._ Lopez begging him not to kill him in one breath and then casually insulting his mother in the next before immediately desperately apologizing because he’d forgotten yet again that Locus could understand him. Donut babbling on and on about interpersonal drama between dozens of people Locus had never met like it was a beloved soap opera he followed religiously while painting Locus’ callused and scarred hands with a hand as deft and steady as a bomb disposal expert, leaving Locus at the end of it with glamorous nails and unsure if the people he’d been talking about had been fellow soldiers, celebrities, or fictional characters. Sarge explaining to Doctor Grey with great patience why it was totally obvious and necessary for him to set things on fire in the infirmary just because they were blue, totally and cheerfully failing (or refusing) to take any of her increasingly less veiled and equally cheerful threats of bodily harm before he was banned for a solid month, and that included if he was bleeding to death, mister!

Okay, so maybe insidious wasn’t the right word.

He searched frantically for a distraction to stop himself from drawing the conclusion his brain was forcing him to make (that he actually _liked--),_ and of course he thought _if one of the Reds were here I’d definitely be too dumbfounded, exasperated, incredulous, or stunned to think about anything I don’t want to think about._

Well then. There was an idea. 

Locus determinedly shook his broken leg out of its pulley, grabbed the bed frame with his good hand, and pulled himself out of the bed and onto the floor with a thump, rolling to try and avoid landing on any of his more injured body parts, blanket flapping gracelessly over him. Locus was a doer. A man of action. If he needed a Red to avoid unpleasant thoughts then by god, he was going to find one. The bastards seemed almost impossible to avoid anyways, how hard could it be?

Locus set about finding himself a wheelchair or a crutch and then getting the hell out of there before the frankly pretty weirdly intimidating and intimidatingly weird Doctor Grey noticed his activity/absence.

He’s one of the deadliest mercenaries alive. He’s _got this._


	8. mercenary/prisoner/adopted-and-angry-about-it red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina makes a horrifying discovery: she's the only vaguely competent AND sane person on the planet. This isn't the first time she's made this discovery.

“What do you mean he’s _escaped?”_ Carolina demanded, aghast.

“The _infirmary,_ Agent Carolina,” Dr. Grey said in a tone of voice that conveyed that she clearly thought she was being reassuring (she employed this tone of voice frequently, but _never_ justifiably). “It’s not like he’s escaped the base itself.”

“How long has he been gone!?” Carolina immediately started doing the calculations in her head (and missed Epsilon with a sharp pang that she swiftly and skillfully ignored), trying to figure out how far the radius for her search would be if he had a five minute head start or a ten minute--

“Oh, about an hour or two?”

“WHAT.”

“Well, you see I don’t have an exact timeframe because Lieutenant Jensen tried to drive again and I was suddenly _very_ busy--”

“Why didn’t you report this earlier?” There was no denying that Dr. Grey had the opportunity. Carolina had found about this trainwreck through sheer luck (bad or good she wasn’t sure of yet) when she’d come by the infirmary for a refilling of her painkillers (damn leg) and walked by an empty hospital bed she knew to be Locus’, devoid of both mercenary/prisoner/adopted-and-angry-about-it Red and guard. She had checked all nearby broom closets for Donut’s corpse. Dr. Grey had been tinkering with what looked suspiciously like Simmons’ prosthetic arm while giggling over a dissertation paper about robotics. Apparently it was very silly and wrong. Carolina didn’t give a shit. Carolina wanted to know why a genocidal, unstable asshole was on the loose in their base and the only two people who knew about it were wasting their time arguing over it. _Ugh._

“Well, you see, my policy is if a patient is healthy enough to make a run for it, they’re healthy enough to not be taking up space in my infirmary! Also, I don’t treat unwilling patients. That’s for interrogations!”

That was so far from being the issue at hand Carolina felt like she was having an out of body experience, staring down at herself and screaming with fury. On the inside. On the outside she was gritting out from between clenched teeth, “He’s a dangerous criminal, doctor.”

“He’s unarmed, wearing only hospital scrubs and briefs, has six broken bones, a concussion, and is still probably high from all of the painkillers I pumped into him.”

Carolina blinked at her, caught off guard. Thank god for helmets.

“I think we’re safe for now, Agent.” And with that Dr. Grey went back to her probably-forcibly-taken/stolen mechanical arm and dissertation papers. The next one was about Napoleon Bonaparte’s sex life, Carolina gathered from Dr. Grey’s murmurs to herself. She sounded approving.

Where had she even _gotten_ dissertation papers? Was Dr. Grey a college professor now?

Carolina shook her head, mentally scolding herself. There was an important job to do, and she’d just remembered that everyone else on the planet was too stupid and/or crazy to realize it (or care enough to do anything about it).

She had a mercenary to hunt down.


	9. you can’t track wheelchair tracks indoors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus is maybe (definitely) a little high, and Carolina is making great progress on her mercenary hunt and NOT FREAKING OUT AT ALL, OKAY? SAY OKAY OR ELSE SHE'LL STAB YOU. OR SHOUT AT YOU UNTIL YOU CRY. DEPENDS ON WHETHER OR NOT SHE'S HOLDING A KNIFE AT THE TIME.

Inventory: scrubs, briefs, casts, wheelchair, scalpel. Possibly high/concussed. He’s completed past missions with less, Locus decides. 

Now if only there were more ramps and elevators in this damn base. 

“This place isn’t handicap accessible at all,” he mutters, turning his wheelchair laboriously around to go and try and find another way forward. If Felix were in his position, Locus thought, he’d take the opportunity to file a lawsuit against Chorus. He forced himself to stop thinking about Felix. That way led only to stupidity, annoyance, with a dash of trauma as the cherry on top. 

Reds. He wanted to find Reds because-- because of perfectly logical and sound reasons, yes, no need to devote any more thought than that to his completely rational reasoning. Wasted brain power. 

His keen gaze takes in his surroundings calmly and--

Grif taps him on his shoulder. “Uh, dude? You’re kind of standing in the way. Sitting. In the way.” He lets loose a large sigh, as if despairing having to talk like a normal human being to be able to go through his day to day life. 

Locus blinks, startled to hell. How the fuck had  _ Grif _ of all people managed to sneak up on him? Wait, scratch that, he’d be startled even if it were Felix himself who’d managed to get within ten feet of him without his notice. 

Damn it, he’d  _ just _ resolved not to think about Felix. This was why he needed the Reds to distract him. Well, not that he _ needed _ the Reds, he didn’t need anyone, he was--

Locus growled to himself and focused on Grif, who seemed some combination of spooked, annoyed, and bored. Wait. 

He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what was wrong with the picture. Slumped shoulders that screamed  _ I’m a lazy soldier who needs disciplining, _ obese, orange armor-- hang on, orange and  _ white _ armor. 

“... Grif?” drifted out of his mouth without his permission. 

Somehow he could  _ feel  _ Grif (?) roll his eyes at him behind the helmet. 

“Man, why do people keep mixing us up? Are you high? He’s, like, twice my age.” He pointed to himself. “Lieutenant. Antoine. Bitters.  _ Not _ Captain Dexter Grif. Okay?” 

Locus wondered how he managed to feel the raised eyebrow too. Neat trick. So far he could only do the  _ oh god how can I feel him glaring murderously at me _ one. 

“Where is Grif, then?” he asks. 

“Just because I’m his lieutenant doesn’t mean I know where he is at any given moment.” Locus chose not to divulge the information that he hadn’t known that he was, indeed, Grif’s lieutenant. That would serve to only make his question seem even more illogical. “Only Captain Simmons has those kind of powers.” 

“Where’s Captain Simmons, then?” he asked patiently. Actually, if he found Simmons he wouldn’t have to find Grif. Any Red would do, his experience told him. Although said experience also told him that in finding one he would swiftly find the other, attached to the first one’s hip, as it were. Well, that was just fine for him, in Locus’ book. The more Reds in any given area, the more distracting and ridiculous they became, like a feedback loop, each idiot enabling and encouraging each other. The odds that something would burst into flames and/or crash also increased significantly. 

“‘Dunno,” he shrugged carelessly. “So, are you gonna’ wheel yourself out of my way or what?” 

Locus considered making Lieutenant Bitters climb over him. The lazy bastard certainly seemed like he needed the exercise. He gave the soldier an up and down and briefly tried to mentally calculate his weight, and then took into account his multiple broken bones. He wisely reconsidered and politely wheeled himself out of the way without a word. 

He made sure to memorize his name, rank, and armor though, because that son of a bitch had been disrespectful, unprofessional, and unhelpful as hell. Nevermind that he was technically a prisoner. Locus was still confident he outranked him in every way that mattered. 

Locus was good at many things. Delayed and deliciously gratuitous vengeance was one of them.

* * *

 

Carolina is hot on his trail. 

“So, it turns out that you can’t track wheelchair tracks indoors.” She blames spending too much time with the Reds and Blues for how fucking stupid she just sounded. The old Agent Carolina certainly wouldn’t have been caught dead saying shit like that. 

“Uh huh,” Lieutenant Jensen says encouragingly, like she’s waiting for a punch line. Carolina soldiers bravely on. 

“Which is why I’m going to need you to give me access to the internal surveillance footage of the base,” she continues. 

Carolina consistently ranked at the top of the Freelancer chart (nevermind  _ Tex _ and her stupid cheating AI brain and super robot body). She can do this, easily. 

“Uh huh…” Lieutenant Jensen leans in eagerly, as if Carolina’s about to pull it all together now with one single last hilarious one liner. Since when did people think she was  _ funny?  _

“Since you’re the one currently on duty in the surveillance room,” she elaborated helplessly. 

No, she isn’t  _ helpless.  _ She is Agent. Motherfucking. Carolina. 

Lieutenant Jensen silently stared at her in anticipation. 

She lost count of her kill count before she reached her twenties. She lost count of the different ways she knows how to kill a man unarmed in hand to hand combat shortly after that. She is maybe not super good at counting (that’s what happens when you rely too much on your brainy computer friend/AI head brother, kids), but that’s not the point! She’s--

She’s cracking first. In a standoff against  _ Katie Jensen. _ A Katie Jensen who isn’t trying, or even aware that she’s in a standoff at all. She’d probably faint if she knew she was in one with Agent Motherfucking Carolina, which only barely mollifies said motherfucker just a touch. 

_ “This isn’t a joke,”  _ she absolutely doesn’t shriek, her brother was the shrieky one, not her! She is mature and calm and responsible and--

And she is wildly shaking Lieutenant Jensen back and forth. “Do you hear me!? Give me the footage! I have to find Locus! There is a goddamn genocidal murderous maniac loose and without supervision in our base, and no, I don’t care if he’s high or concussed or grievously injured in general!  _ I’m finding him even if it kills me and no one will stand in my--” _

_ “--okay, okay,  _ I SAID OKAY! PLEASE JUST LET ME GO AGENT CAROLINA I’M SO SORRY--”

It takes ten minutes for Lieutenant Jensen (and Carolina) to calm down enough for them to proceed. She shakily sends Carolina a file that she technically doesn’t have the clearance for but who fucking cares she’s a goddamn Freelancer she dares anyone to say that she can’t watch this, and assures her that all the internal footage from the last few hours are on it. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she says courteously, glad for the armor’s that hiding her blush. She may have freaked out just a tiny bit back there. She’s a little stressed, okay? 

“No problem,” Lieutenant Jensen squeaks. 

“God, social interaction is  _ hellish,” _ slips out, unbidden. 

“Tell me about it.” Lieutenant Jensen’s shoulders slump. Carolina pats one sympathetically. In Jensen’s favor, she only screams a little. 


	10. shocked and offended at this fortunate turns of events.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus devises a way to climb stairs while in a wheelchair because he is a practical Terminator. Carolina sees something truly disturbing on the suirvellance footage.

Locus had made a great discovery, which was that if he pushed his wheels forward _very hard_ and then immediately jammed his scalpel between the spokes for a quick breather and to brace and reorient himself, he could slowly “climb” his way up a flight of stairs. The wheels creaked. More alarmingly, his precious scalpel flexed and bent more and more for each time he pulled that trick.

His and Donut’s room was on the top floor.

How many floors were there in the building? What floor was he on now? (Since when had he started thinking of it as _his and Donut’s_ room?)

No matter. Locus was basically the fucking Terminator, except too cool and practical to know who the Terminator was. He would find his way to his horribly placed room with his horribly placed (namely, not right next to him immediately) roommate. He _would_ be back.

He grinded his teeth, quickly ripped the scalpel out from between the spokes, grabbed the wheel with scalpel still in hand, _forced_ it forwards until he jostled his way up another step and then quickly jammed the scalpel back in to gasp and try not to visibly clutch at his aching head or chest. People were staring. People always stared at him though, so it was fine. He kind of wished he had some makeup to cover up his facial scarring though. Donut would probably have some concealer his shade. For no conceivable reason.

Donut. Red team. Room. Get to room to get the others. And to get away from stairs forever. God, he really might just sue the damn government for this shit--

“Hi!”

Locus startles, almost pulling out the scalpel without being prepared. That would have ended ugly. He looks up as slowly and menacingly as he can muster at whoever just almost managed to murder him with a fucking greeting. A very cheery and loud greeting.

It was, of course, Captain Caboose.

“... Hi,” he returned reluctantly after a long moment of uncomfortably prolonged eye-to-visor contact. Locus had won plenty of stare-offs before, but there was something about how there wasn’t even an expectant air to the sim trooper. It was just like he’d momentarily powered down to preserve power until Locus chose to finally respond, frozen in place with the exact same unchanging body language as when he greeted him. What an unsettling blue man.

… Locus can’t believe that he of all people was just out creeped by a sim trooper. By Michal fucking Caboose. He’s been on Red team for all of… some time? and he’s already sunk to these levels.

… Wait, wait _he’s not admitting to being a Red—!_

“--and just seems like a really silly way to travel in general, have you tried maybe a canoo Mercenary Locus? Ooh, or maybe a kayak! I am not sure how those two are different though.”

“What?” he asks, thrown off and confused and desperately looking for something to help his denial win over the truth that’s repeatedly smacking him in the face. It shouldn't be so hard, he’s been doing that for years!

“Your scalpel-stair-chair, Mercenary Locus,” Captain Caboose says gently, like those string of words actually even mean anything and he’s breaking some unfortunate news. “It is not a really, uh… good way to travel! See, we could just do it like this--”

And then he just fucking _picks the wheelchair up,_ and this was important, _with Locus still in it,_ and he starts effortlessly walking up the stairs, covering more ground than Locus would on his own given five minutes in a total of five _seconds._

He is shocked and offended at this fortunate turns of events.

Captain Caboose starts humming tunelessly.

“... Take a left here,” Locus instructs grudgingly. He is a practical Terminator. Not a prideful one. That was Felix’s shtick, and just look at who was still alive now, huh? Kind of spoke for itself.

Captain Caboose turns.

“That’s not left!”

* * *

At this point, so much time has passed that it’s about time Carolina should start considering what the most likely routes off of fucking Chorus itself Locus took rather than what routes out of the base.

She huffily starts watching the surveillance footage. She switches through Corridor one to Corridor fourteen without seeing anything of note, the perfectly fine storage closet that has forever been tainted for her by Grif loudly deflowering Simmons inside of it before stubbornly insisting he’d done no such thing, the mess hall, the kitchen--

Wait a minute.

 _Speaking_ of Grif.

She watched in quiet astonishment as he crept into the kitchen using stealth she had never before witnessed in the lazy man. A second Grif followed him, a third--

She realized she was witnessing an unsanctioned stealth operation by Gold Team. She swallowed and leaned in with anticipation. Kimball would have mentioned an inside mission like this to her, Carolina had been burned badly enough to be willing to be as pushy as she needed to be to be kept in the loop. How hadn’t this discovered? Of course-- a Gold Team member must have been on duty in the surveillance room at the time. Those sneaky fuckers, they’d actually planned this pretty elegantly. But what--

Grif opened a drawer, silently fist pumped, and started handing pudding cups to one of his men behind him, who was holding a burlap sack open for them.

Carolina felt like her eyes were uncontrollably rolling at the same time as she was having a rage induced stroke. It was a peculiar feeling.

There were two kinds of people in the world: the kind who let power go their head like her father, and the kind who let power go to their head like _Grif._ She knew which one she preferred, but she was still going to kill him for this. For hiding sneaking capabilities like that from her, if nothing else. They could have used that on missions! He was deceptively light on his feet.

She might kill him slightly less than she would have in any other circumstances, though. It was admittedly pretty impressive how flawlessly he’d carried out his little internal mission, she'd onlt caught him by coincidence (and there was a thought, was this even the first time he'd pulled something like this?). And she was preoccupied with other prey at the moment anyways.

Carolina dutifully checked Corridor fifteen.


	11. so much for looking like a normal sane human being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus gets passed along, and meanwhile Carolina discovers the wonders and horrors of social media. It's for work, she swears.

Steering Captain Caboose is hard. Continually correcting him may have in fact taken Locus more time than just carrying on with his own inefficient grueling system would have. _Somehow._

The man is certainly distracting, he’ll give him that. But he’s not a Red however, which matters for some reason to him, which is something he won’t analyze or think about at all, ever.

After far too long a span of time (and far too much staring from passersby, god knows what kind of reputation Locus was rapidly unintentionally fostering), the door to his room was finally in sight. Locus almost cries. He bravely resists, thank god for his extensive RTI training (which probably had a pretty significant part to do with his messed up-edness when it came to his mental state, now that he thinks about it, and wow look at that, he suddenly isn’t thinking about it any longer! Goodbye shitty thoughts! Locus is good at this. Almost as good as he is at RTI. Top of his squad. Okay so maybe he isn’t good at this.)

“Now keep moving forward,” Locus says, because Captain Caboose requires constant stimulus and reminders, or else something else will immediately grasp his attention. That butterfly hunt seriously slowed them down, not to mentioned jostled his ribs. Locus considers sending him to Doctor Grey along with a note to test him for ADHD, before reconsidering. He would definitely get lost on the way there. And probably also eat the note.

“Right,” Caboose says, before taking a right. Locus doesn’t even bother sighing at this point, but also he’s _so close._

“For god’s sake, I just want to go to Donut’s room!” he snaps.

“Oh, Bearclaw! Why didn’t you say so?” And then he walks straight forward to Locus’ and Donut’s room with zero detours. Locus’ feels his jaw slack at the shocking display of competency (god how fast ones standards can drop in a short amount of time. The Reds and Blues were miracle workers, he’d give them that).

“You know where Donut’s room is?” he chokes. Caboose hadn’t even known where the mess hall was, when he’d tried to use it as a landmark to help them along the way.

“Yes! He gives me cheese and juice boxes. No wine though, because stupid Tucker says I don’t have enough brain cells to spare to burn on it.” He pouts. “I don’t even want the stupid wine. It tastes like spoiled juice boxes.”

Locus stares blankly ahead. _But Bearclaw doesn’t even vaguely sound like Donut,_ is all he can think for some reason.

And then they’re in front of the door and Caboose is politely knocking, expertly balancing Locus with only one hand, not even shaking in the slightest. Jesus.

The door opens to reveal a smiling scarred face. Donut.

Finally.

It bursts out of Locus like a dam.

“I have been left alone the entire damn day. How long is alone time supposed to last, because that feels like too long. I’m injured. I’m still debatably hostile, as proved by your recently hospitalized ally. Do you have any idea how much distance there is between the infirmary and here? Probably not much, but I think I just took the longest most inefficient possible way to cross all of it. I had to deal with Caboose. I had to deal with _Bitters._ He’s an asshole, Donut. I hate him. What are you even supposed to _do_ with alone time? Stare at the wall!?”

Donut blinks at him, startled into a frank answer. “You were supposed to masturbate during your alone time, Locus.”

Locus stares at Donut blankly, replaying what he just said a few times in his head, convinced he heard wrong. If he’d even vaguely drawn that conclusion, he’d have expected Donut to at most accidentally imply it with an incredibly obvious double entendre, not outright state it like that. And Locus hadn’t even vaguely drawn that conclusion. Christ.

Maybe he needs to get laid. Just a little bit.

“Well, you are talking about Tucker things now, so I think I am just going to leave. Here, Danish.” And then Caboose hands Donut Locus, _still_ in his wheelchair, like he’s a borrowed book being returned or something.

“WAIT, CAB--OOF!”

It predictably does not go well.

* * *

 Carolina had finally found Locus on the surveillance footage, traversing down hallways and up stairs at a startling lack of speed. Okay, so maybe his injuries _were_ that bad. She can’t help feeling a little disappointed, even though it’s a good thing that she can narrow her search radius now. But the footage isn’t real time, so she still doesn’t know where he is. Only approximately.

Carolina had caught targets with less.

She considers her options as she searches the last place she’d seen Locus in an outward going spiral pattern, which is harder than it sounds with infrastructure all over the place. And people.

Speaking of people.

“Who-- oh my god, I’m so sorry Agent Carolina!” Simmons squeaks after bumping into her. He’s still kind of nervous around her, after the whole ‘trying to threaten him and his friends into working for her so she can execute her former boss/dad-although-no-one-has-to-know-that-part’ thing. Though, to be fair, he seemed like a pretty nervous guy in general. Especially around women. Carolina tries to tell herself that yeah, that’s totally why Simmons is slowly edging away from her right now like she’s a dangerous wild animal.

“That’s alright Simmons,” she placates him in the hopes of maybe one day being a normal sane human being in his eyes. “By the way have you seen Locus?” she asks offhandedly, out of obligation if nothing else. He almost definitely doesn’t know--

“Oh, sure!” he says, and Carolina snaps around from where her attention had already been wandering away from the conversation to focus on him like a bloodhound with a steak. Simmons flinches and squeaks again underneath her intent green stare. It kind of reminds her of techs fearfully trying to report to her father. So much for looking like a normal sane human being. She forces herself to seem calm, at least outwardly so. She doesn’t think she quite succeeds, given the way Simmons seems to be shrinking in on himself. She’d possibly gained more of a calmly-about-to-murder-you look instead of I-am-a-chill-person-who-doesn’t-murder-her-comrades look.

“Where,” she grits out in an as friendly manner as possible (gritting and friendly don’t really go together, unfortunately).

“O--On Basebook!”

She pauses. “What?”

“He’s trending!”

 _“What,”_ she repeats in the hopes that he’ll start making sense any time soon. Maybe she should shake him a little. In a friendly, positive sort of way that totally won’t terrify him.

“Here, I’ll show you!” He reaches for and fumbles with his phone before shoving it in her face to show her a truly brain-stopping image.

 _#wheelchairmantakesthecaboose_ proves to be most helpful in her mercenary hunt, as people keep adding their own sightings to the tag. That doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it.


	12. get all weird and obsess-y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina finally tracks down her prey. Donut helps Locus get over his Terrible Crush. Wash has weird and troubling ideas about how to make your students train.

Donut was still wheezing and only halfway up off the floor by the time Agent Carolina burst violently and furiously onto the scene.

“YOU,” she said. “I HAVE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU _EVERYWHERE.”_

Locus looked at her, practically frothing at the mouth with murder in her eyes, and considered his options. On the one hand, wheelchair-bound. On the other, scalpel. On the third--

He could swear Agent Carolina had just literally _growled._

Locus made his first good decision possibly ever (not counting stabbing Felix in the back, which he would never regret and occasionally happily daydreamed about) and slammed the door in her face. After a moment's thought he also activated the door lock. 

After a moment’s thought for Agent Carolina, she kicked the door very, very hard. It was a thick piece of metal. It dented. Agent Carolina started cursing.

“Oh, she sounds grumpy…” Donut commented breathlessly, still striving to stand, or even sit, up.

“It never ends,” he said flatly, staring at the door that was steadily gaining more and more boot shaped dents, bulging shockingly far inwards towards the room. They were all uncannily well aimed towards Locus himself as well, actually. He noted warily that they seemed to be concentrating an awful lot towards where his groin would be if he were the door.

“You’re trapped now!!!” she roared. “You can’t escape! And don’t you even think about taking Donut hostage--”

She cut herself off with a palpable air of regret. Locus exchanged significant glances with Donut.

“I think she’s had a very long day,” Donut defended her loyally.

“... Boss?”

“Oh my god no,” Donut said.

Locus stiffened as he heard Agent Washington’s approaching voice, muffled yet still so utterly recognizable through even the thick door.

“Locus,” Donut said. “Locus, no.”

“No what,” he asked distractedly, tilting his head and trying to focus on the hushed conversation going on outside of the room instead of the one he was participating in.

“Do _not_ get all weird about Wash, Loci.”

Locus was too distracted about the accusation to protest the nickname, which he was certainly going to get around to in just a moment. “Why would I get all weird about Wash?”

“Because you _always_ get all weird and obsess-y around Wash.”

“I do not.”

“You do too. Look, don’t get me wrong, I love crushes! But I don’t think yours on Wash is… suuuuper healthy? I say this as a friend who loves you!”

How the fuck had they gotten to the point of ‘a friend who loves you’ in the span of… however long Locus had been here. He’d been unconscious for a lot of it.

“Like, you’re really obvious about it and then Wash gets all obvious about how uncomfortable he is, and I’m not sure you’ve even noticed? He’s just not into you, I’m sorry.” Donut patted him sympathetically on the shoulder, and now Locus was too distracted by the fact that he _hadn’t_ twitched at the contact to contradict him.

“I just don’t think you’re ready for a relationship quite yet,” he went on. “I mean, Felix was _awful_ for you.” He then proceeded to give Locus the most soulful look he had ever experienced.

“... Um,” Agent Carolina called out, sounding terribly reluctant and sheepish. “I think I owe you an……… apology, Locus.” She made a muffled choking sound.

“You’re doing so well, boss,” Agent Washington said, and Donut gave him a Look when Locus twitched at the sound of his voice. Okay. Fine. So maybe he was a _little_ weird about Agent Washington. But he could totally control that. He’d show him. _He’d show them all._ He’d be so normal and calm and not obsessed at all Agent Washington wouldn’t think he was weird at all, and maybe Donut would fix his coat of nail polish too as a reward.

And then Locus righted the balance in the world by making one of his customary Terrible Decisions, and opened the door before he could think it through.

* * *

 “... Boss?”

Carolina, gearing up for yet another kick (her leg screaming at her), temporarily lost her balance. She recovered it in a way to make it seem like it had been totally intentional and just the first step in a graceful method to go back to standing position, because _like hell_ was she going to lose Wash’s respect.

“... Wash,” she replied, coolly nodding her head at him. “Do you have the brute force access code to Donut’s room?”

“Um, Sarge has that, he wouldn’t stand for a dirty Blue… What are you doing?”

“Damn,” Carolina muttered scrolling through her phone. “He doesn’t have a Basebook profile like everyone else on this damn planet. And he only answers his comm about fifty percent of the time…”

“Boss, why are you trying to brute force your way into Donut’s room?” he asked. “Trust me, you really, _really_ don’t want to go in there without knocking first.”

“Oh, trust me,” she said darkly. “I’ve knocked.”

Wash looked at the dents in the door. “Right.”

“Locus is holed up in there with Donut,” she explained herself, realizing that she perhaps looked slightly more unhinged than usual.

“Yeah,” Wash nodded. “Simmons told me about that. Apparently they’re roommates now?”

“What?” she asked, brow furrowing.

“I know, right? Seems like a recipe for finding Donut’s cooling corpse stuffed inside of a broom closet somewhere--”

“No, no,” she said. “I mean, yes, yeah, but also _what?_ This is his _room?”_

“Sarge ordered it. He apparently thought it’d help speed up his ‘recovery’, whatever that means. Are they skipping on training?”

Carolina pondered the fact that Wash apparently thought that trying to destroy and/or hack someone’s door was something that she’d be willing to do if someone was skipping training. She wondered if Wash’s students were okay.

“... No. They, um. Locus is escaping?”

“I thought he’d been horribly injured by Doc… somehow? Did he have to operate on him or something?”

She considered escaping the unified forces of Chorus while in a wheelchair, trekking her way through the tropical landscape. She considered the fact that Locus had locked himself inside what turned out to be his _room._ Which had no windows.

(He’d been spending the entire day looking for his _captors?_ No way, no way, no)

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her thoughts catching up with her. “Don’t you teach classes at this time of day?”

“Caboose told me that he’d given something to Donut which made him fall right over with happiness. Some prodding revealed that the thing in question was, uh, not something that just anyone can carry effortlessly. I was just coming over real quick to check that Donut hadn't been squashed to death by a pallet full of bricks or something." 

Which accounted for why Donut had been lying dazed on the ground by Locus. How exactly did she think he’d taken the man down?

“Um,” she said eloquently. “I may have overreacted and panicked… just a little bit.”

 _Or jumped at the first opportunity not to lose your mind to boredom and inactivity and too much time to_ think, a voice sing-sang in the back of her mind. It sounded too much like Sigma for her tastes. Epsilon would pull him forth whenever he needed time to buffer and he was in deep discussion with Delta about logistics and trajectories or what have you, Gamma got on her nerves too much and Theta was so timid around her it made her feel like a big bad monster or something, at least she knew how to deal with Sigma already, and Epsilon would _never_ let her speak with Omega, Eta and Iota hurt too much--

Too much time to think.

“... Um,” she called out reluctantly, sheepishly. “I think I owe you an……… apology, Locus.” She tried not to choke on her words, and only partially succeeded. Apologies she could do. Sincere apologies? Not quite as easy. But they were important.

"You're doing so well," Wash encouraged her. 

Locus opened the door, Donut resting a hand supportively on his shoulder, and all of Carolina’s doubts vanished, leaving her with a red face. So maybe she should have just listened to Doctor Grey at the start of all this. Oops.

She’d never been all that good at listening to the well meant _actually good_ advice.

Carolina sucked it up and ate her humble pie. It would be far from the first time she'd been wrong about someone. 


	13. the kind of guy who would have two huge knife wounds on his face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one can hurt you over the internet, Matthews would never survive torture, and Locus has zero tact.

_Agent_Carolina: Where is Grif?_

Carolina desperately needed a distraction from her last disaster of a mission. (Which had also been to distract herself, and was anyone noticing a pattern?) Punishing Grif for his petty theft and irresponsible leadership seemed to be as good a distraction as any. She’d always had a soft spot for schadenfreude.

_RichardSimmons: Why does everyone just assume I know where Grif is at any given time!?_

_RS: He could be anywhere! It’s a large place! It’s not like he informs me about everywhere he’s going every damn time he moves!_

Carolina blinked at the Basebook private chat she’d started with Simmons, surprised. He’d _never_ been that venomous with her before.

_RS: Why don’t you ask Donut, or Sarge, or Lopez!?_

It was… kind of nice, actually. Like he _wasn’t_ terrified of her. It wasn’t like she could punch him through the phone, she supposed.

_RS: Well, okay, I can see why you wouldn’t ask Lopez, but there are plenty of other people he spends time with!_

She patiently waited for his bitching about how everyone just assumed he knew where Grif was at any given moment to peter out before he sheepishly told her his exact location. It helped that she could move and be otherwise productive while he worked his way towards it, so she didn’t have to silently and ineptly stare (which always came across as a glare for some reason) until they finally got to the point.

_AC: Thanks, Simmons._

His reply took a stretched out moment, which was weird considering how short it turned out to be.

_RS: No problem!_

It seemed she wasn’t the only one benefiting from the opportunity to modulate her tone better online.

_RS: By the way, have you seen my arm around?_

She flashed back to Doctor Grey giggling over a prosthetic arm in her infirmary.

_AC: No._

God bless the fact that Basebook didn’t seem to have any way to communicate besides text, neatly cutting out the need for proper body language, verbal inflection, and facial expression (a byproduct no doubt intended by its socially awkward creator). She was pretty sure if that had been a verbal conversation she would have just ended it with an uncertain high pitched _nnnnnno?_

She exited the chat, prepared to shove her phone into an armor compartment before her phone plinged.

_You have a friend request from Richard Simmons._

_Accept._

* * *

 

Subordinates don’t eat with their commanding officers if they have the choice. That’s weird. They’re your boss, not your friend.

Matthews clearly hasn’t let being weird stop him a day in his life, though. Grif doesn’t bother hiding his sigh. Matthews doesn’t bother pretending that he’s going to accept that that sigh just happened.

Carolina doesn’t bother acting like she’s a normal person. She sits down at his table without asking and smacks his sandwich out of his hands without a moment of hesitation or remorse.

“Hey!” Grif says, clutching his smacked hand to his chest with only some exaggeration. He’s pretty sure she isn’t totally sure about the whole concept of ‘holding back’, and is only pretending that yeah, sure, she _totally_ understands what it means, she’s just choosing not to do it because she isn’t interested in doing it. So stop asking so many _damn_ questions, okay?

 _“Pudding cups,”_ she says, and he immediately knows he’s fucked.

“I know right!?” he says indignantly. “They were supposed to serve those today, but apparently they’re _empty.”_ He rolls his eyes, trying to suppress his urge to sweat and/or actually run for once in his life.

She stares at him flatly for a moment. She turns away from him (he momentarily and foolishly relaxes) and towards-- oh fuck, _Matthews._

For a moment, they’re all frozen, staring at each other. Then, slowly, deliberately, Carolina raises her left eyebrow, and Grif knows everything is over.

Predictably, Matthews immediately crumbles like an unsteady house of cards encountering a gentle gust of wind.

“I’M SO SORRY, AGENT CAROLINA!”

Grif considers trying to outrun Carolina, and then just lets his head fall on his arms on the table.

Being a leader is hard and no one understands.

* * *

 

“It looks so pretty though,” Donut protests, but he says it as he’s smearing foundation onto Locus’ face, so he doesn’t tense up. He’d been right, by the way. The soldier _did_ have Locus’ exact shade for some unknowable reason.

“It’s facial scarring,” Locus explains. He’s not sure why he actually has to explain this, but he does. “Facial scarring isn’t pretty.”

“Hurtful!” Oh, right. At least half of Donut’s face is a scarred ruin, telling a story of standing far too close to explosives, like a dingus.

“You… pull it off,” he corrects himself weakly. The thing is, he actually sort of does. It contrasts in a weirdly nice way with the rest of his whole… thing. Pink and glitter and all that, topped off with a prominent war wound.

“Well, so do you!” He puts the cap back on the foundation and starts cleaning his hands with a Kleenex so he won’t smudge up the concealer container.

“Uh huh,” he says, unconvinced. There is definitely no fascinating contrast with him. Locus looks and acts exactly like the kind of guy who would have two huge knife wounds on his face.

“No, really! It’s so neat and symmetrical! I bet Simmons loves it, he’s very into symmetry.”

 _Then why is only half his face metal,_ he doesn’t say. He doubts it was a cosmetic choice. He doesn’t seem the type. Now, if _Felix_ turned up one day with cyborg parts, Locus would bet half his immense fortune that the parts would be fucking steampunk themed--

“Stop scowling, hold it off until I’ve got an even layer,” Donut complains, brush at the ready.

Locus stops scowling. It’s a significant effort. For years now, scowling has been kind of his status quo. He doesn’t have resting bitch face, he’s just… very upset about many things.

“There we go!” Donut says happily. He shoves a gaudy mirror in his face. His normal looking face. He relaxes his expression again and meets his reflections eyes. He almost looks like an emotionally and mentally stable civilian.

Locus is definitely escaping once he’s healthy again. Absolutely.

“Can I do your mascara next?”

Definitely. Later.


	14. zero defensive feelings for the state of wisconsin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons deals with being bad with people by talking too much and Locus by not at all. A conversation between the two will inevitably be... moderately psychologically interesting. Someone get Doctor Grey a recording as a Non Denominational Holiday present.

“Oh my god, where’d your scar go!?”

It was perhaps the first time Simmons had ever spoken to him directly without stuttering, sweating, being on the verge of a panic attack/crying, or at the very least a teammate in the role of emotional support. Subpar emotional support, but still. 

“Wisconsin for vacation,” Locus said flatly.

“Who the fuck goes to Wisconsin for vacation?” He seemed to finally realize who he was speaking to and more relevantly what _tone_ in which he was speaking to that person with. “Um. People who have family there, maybe? Wisconsin is a totally valid place to vacation at!”

Locus considered reassuring him that he had zero defensive feelings for the state of Wisconsin. Conclusion: no. He’d never been a reassuring person, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Seriously though, where’d your scar go?”

“It’s makeup, Simmons.” _Duh._

“Guys can wear makeup?” He seemed absolutely mystified by the concept. Locus stared.

“Did you think that Donut’s nails just naturally grew that color? Or that his cheekbones glittered on their own?”

“Well, I, no! But it’s different with Donut!”

_Why._

“Anyways, why would you cover your scar? It’s so symmetrical!”

Locus was glad that Donut wasn’t present, if for no other reason than that Locus was rapidly growing tired of silent _I told you so’s,_ and also of just being frequently wrong in general. He wasn’t happy for any other additional reason.

“Why are you here,” he said instead of pursuing the current topic of conversation. 

“Oh, yeah, do you know what’s going on with Grif and the rest of Gold Team?”

Locus raised his eyebrows. His eyebrows could be very expressive, so Simmons took it as the prodding it was without misunderstanding or hesitation.

“I’ve just been hearing all of these awful rumors about what Carolina’s doing to them, and I don’t know what’s being said is real and what isn’t? Because some of the stories are just plain ridiculous, and also involve a suspicious amount of urban legends incorporated into them. Also, I think General Kimball would have told me by now if Grif had been brutally murdered this morning.”

Locus stared.

“Well, I can’t just ask Carolina!” Locus would let Simmons read whatever he wanted into his Looks so long as it got him as many answers as possible with as few questions as possible being asked on his end. “It would be awkward and weird to just ask her ‘hey have you broken my best friend’s legs today? Just asking!’ … Right? That would be weird, right?”

Locus continued not speaking. It seemed to be going well for him.

“I mean we’re Basebook friends now-- I still haven’t figured out how that translates to real life friends--”

Maybe not speaking should be his new thing.

“She just sent me a pretty good Locus meme, she’s learning how to internet good impressively fast, although she was pretty shockingly inept at it for someone who’s had a sentient computer living in her head for, like, over a year?”

Like Sarge and his shotgun.

“I’m kind of confused about the timeline of Stuff Happening to us, actually, one disaster just kind of runs into the other one after a while, you know? Also we’re so often stranded without any sort of access to electronic calendars or the outside world and--”

Or Donut and innuendos.

“The timing is actually getting more and more weirdly ambiguous now that I’m thinking about it--”

“Do you talk a lot when you’re nervous?”

“When I talk to people I get social anxiety, and when I get social anxiety I can’t stop talking, and when I can’t stop talking I say a lot of stupid shit that makes me feel more anxious. It’s a brutal cycle.”

Wait. “Locus meme?” Hang on. “Agent Carolina’s torturing Gold Team?” Just one moment. “You’re internet friends with Agent Carolina?”

They both floundered in silence together for a moment, wondering which topic they should stick with.

“Why is Agent Carolina torturing Gold Team?” he decided on, picking what bewildered him the most first. Not that the idea of Simmons snaptiming or whatever the fuck with Agent Carolina wasn’t completely fucking bizarre. And _what the hell was a Locus meme?_

“Well, she’s officially calling it discipling Gold Team. Grif’s been stealing food again, except this time he apparently roped his entire squad into it too.” He puffed up. “Not like _Maroon_ Team. We follow the rules! And a strict vegan diet! Except for Private Brown who’s allergic to soy and nuts so it’s too inconvenient for her, and that’s totally fine.” He gave Locus a warning look as if he was going to condemn Private Brown for this and Simmons wasn't going to let that stand. It was pretty absurd, considering the fact that Locus was Locus and Simmons was, well, no offense intended but, _Simmons._

“... Right. Good talk,” Locus hinted. He’d been just about to take a nap. Donut’s aromatic candles were extremely relaxing. Anyways, he thought he'd made it pretty clear by now with all of his questions and unhelpful silence that he knew even less than Simmons (a thought that grated just a touch). 

“Really?” Simmons brightened at this inadvertent compliment.

“How’re you doing, son?” Sarge popped his head into the room without knocking first and asked.

“HE CALLS YOU SON!?”

Locus sighed. It looked like that nap wasn’t going to be coming any time soon.


	15. a tidal wave of existential angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Grey clears Locus for duty, finds something interesting in his cast-offs, and Bitters gets a Bad Feeling. Locus just tries not to panic.

“Aaand there we go!” Dr. Grey declared cheerily as the last of Locus’ casts fell to the floor in pieces. She didn’t seem perturbed by how close she was holding the buzzsaw to her own face. She didn’t seem at all inclined to stops its unsettlingly loud and sharp spinning either. “You are now officially off sick leave, and free to participate in light duties, Private Locus!”

So, all pretensions that he was a prisoner seemed to have been given up, at least by her. And it looked like he’d been knocked down to private too at the same time. Well, he supposed he deserved a demotion at the very least, if nothing else. He’d gotten off pretty easy, he reflected, as images of Felix falling came back to him in slow motion and high definition. Even the colors seemed brighter, in hindsight.

“What a pretty smile you have, Private Locus!” Dr. Grey remarked as she was finally putting the buzz saw away. Locus, knowing perfectly well that she was by no means a good judge of what was pretty and what was instead deeply disturbing, made himself stop smiling. He swore he could hear his face creak a little at the unfamiliar muscles being used. “Oh my, what’s this?”

She bent down and started rooting through Locus’ quite frankly awful smelling cast-offs (shit, he just made a pun, _who was at fault for this)_ before holding up triumphantly… a scalpel. Specifically, his scalpel. His stolen scalpel. Which made it _her_ scalpel, technically speaking. Which he had stolen from her some time ago before stuffing it into his cast before forgetting  about it. So that was what that stabbing pain had been, when he’d rolled over weird in his sleep…

“No idea, never seen it in my life,” he answered before standing up on unsteady legs.

“You know I can just make you come here whenever I want you to, right?” she called after him.

“I don’t know why you would want to do that, Dr. Grey.” Locus tentatively tried speeding up, and was mildly cheered when he didn’t immediately fall over.

“I’ll just say that I suspect you have shingles or something!”

 _“My skin is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, Dr. Grey.”_ Locus noticed far too late a Fed filming him saying that with their phone. Damn it, yet another Locus meme to add to the pile, knowing his luck.

It isn’t until he’s back in his room that he realizes-- his armor’s fixed. He’s off sick leave. There are no guards watching him. He could turn on his stealth unit and just… leave.

A tidal wave of existential angst immediately slammed into his previously peaceful mind (or as peaceful as his thoughts ever got, so constant mild snark with a regular bouts of morbidness, then), and Locus experienced enough self doubt, denial, and desperation in the span of a fraction of a second to put a legion of middle aged fathers experiencing their first intense spell of a midlife crisis to shame.

Well… well, he couldn’t just _leave._ Not right away! Of course, he was going to leave _eventually._ He just, he had to do some things first! Get his affairs in order! Like getting his revenge on Bitters. Right, that! He’d sworn to himself he’d do it, so he had to take care of it before he left. There was no harm in delaying his departing just a bit. No one except Lopez knew he could leave anytime he wanted to, and the robot didn’t seem to be in a hurry to keep him within murdering distance. Right, right, right.

Revenge on Bitters came first. _Then_ he’d leave. Yes. Totally. Absolutely. Yes.

* * *

 In an undisclosed location in the base, Bitters snapped awake with a gasp. Matthews was startled so badly he fell out of their makeshift bunk with a squeak.

“What? What’s wrong!?” he asked breathlessly, sitting up on the floor.

“I don’t know… I just got an awful feeling,” he answered uncertainly, unsettled to the bone.

“I can get you some Xanax,” Matthews offered.

“Dude, seriously, are you a drug dealer? You have to tell me, we’re fucking.”

“No!” he protested indignantly. “I mean, yes, we are fucking-- do you have to put it like that? No, for the last time, I’m not a drug dealer. I’m telling you, I just have a lot of prescriptions.”

“You _are_ a nervous wreck,” Bitters granted.

Matthews smiled at him and got some him some Xanax. Bitters took it, made out some, had a snack, and then fell back asleep, forgetting all about his vaguely ominous bad feeling.

He really shouldn’t have.


	16. what’s wrong with the killing and seriously injuring part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus asks his team for advice. Strangely, SIMMONS is the most helpful one.

“How do you get revenge on someone without killing or seriously injuring them?” Locus asked.

“Why would you want to get revenge on someone? Forgiving and forgetting is ALWAYS better, Locus!” Donut chided him.

“Right, this was a mistake.” Locus stood up.

“Oh, good! People don’t usually take my advice!” Donut brightened.

“I’m going to go and ask someone else.” Locus left.

“Oh. Yeah, that makes more sense.” Donut sighed.

* * *

 

_“Insult them in a language they don’t understand.”_

“You are a very petty, powerless man, Lopez.”

Lopez was the most offended at the fact that he was actually sort of happy about being called a man.

* * *

 

“What’s wrong with the killing and seriously injuring part!?” Sarge exclaimed. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“No, but see, the person in question was just sort of casually rude to me.”

“A shotgun blast to the face should fix that poor attitude!”

“No, Sarge--”

* * *

 

Locus decided to skip Grif for obvious reasons. The reasons being his intended victim was his lieutenant, and that Grif wasn’t confirmed for dead or alive yet.

* * *

 

“Oh, that’s easy,” Simmons said. “Just be passive aggressive as hell. Possibly forever.”

“... Go on.”

“Well, for example, Palomo complained about the way I organized the armory being confusing. So ever since then I’ve been changing the way I organize the armory on a weekly basis to _keep_ that ungrateful asshole confused.”

“That seems like it would confuse _everyone,_ not just Lieutenant Palomo.”

“Worth it. Also, not everyone! I drill Maroon Team on it every Sunday before I change everything, so they get it.”

Locus thought for a long moment, before carefully choosing his words. “This seems like it might just be team rivalry politics.”

“Whaaat? No! Of course not. That’s ridiculous. We’re all on the same side here.” Simmons seemed to be having a bit of hard time meeting his eyes. “If there were though, hypothetically speaking, different sides within that same side, like sub-sides, sort of, well, Maroon Team would be the best one. Obviously.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Right! Right.”

“Well, they are the only ones who can seem to grasp the organization system in the armory. Or so I’ve heard.”

Simmons brightened. “I know, right!?”

“Thank you, Simmons,” Locus said. “I think I’ve grasped the concept of pettiness now.”

“Oh, no problem!” Simmons seemed to puff up ten times at the _thank you Simmons._

“I have an excellent example right in front of me.”

“Yes-- hey!” Simmons paused for a moment. “Oh, you _have_ grasped it.”

Simmons smiled at him, and it was a dorky weirdly easy to be fond of sort of smile. Locus had a feeling he wouldn’t be receiving any helpful emails about armory organization systems any time soon though.


	17. kidnapping an entire squad levels of weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus has a chat with Donut, Simmons, and then Carolina. Our boy is growing into a social butterfly. A murderous, scheming butterfly.

With a vague plan in mind, he set out to find Lieutenant Bitters.

“Why the fuck does nobody know where Lieutenant Bitters is,” he said.

“Someone on Gold Team probably knows,” Donut suggested.

He set out to find anyone on Gold Team.

“Why the fuck,” Locus said, “doesn’t anybody know where _anyone_ on Gold Team is?”

“Really?” Donut asked.

“Do _you_ know where anyone on Gold Team is?” Locus asked. “Anyone at all.”

Donut thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said. “Shit.”

“An entire squad has gone missing inside of this base without a trace. Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

“Well, most of Gold Team is composed of pretty low key guys,” Donut said. “Y’know, quiet, calm people. Not screamers.” Locus chose to ignore that last part.

“So quiet that no one notices when they completely disappear? How long has this even been going on?”

“You know who I’d bet knows?” Donut asked, brightening.

“Who?”

* * *

 “Yeah, they’ve been missing for a while now.” Simmons nodded.

“Do you have any idea of how or why?” Locus asked.

“Uh,” he said guiltily. “No.”

Locus narrowed his eyes. Simmons broke instantly.

“Okay, so I may have an idea!” His shoulders slumped. “I last saw Grif some weeks ago, during breakfast. Then I had my first Basebook chat with Carolina, she asked me where Grif was, I told her, and the next time I thought to check--later that afternoon-- all of Gold Team was impossible to find. I’ve talked to General Kimball about it, but she says it’s fine, so… I guess whatever Carolina did to them, if she did anything, she notified Kimball about it. And it probably wasn’t murder?” He looked a little uncertain over that point.

“Agent Carolina made an entire squad disappear.”

“Well, I have my suspicions, yeah…”

“And they haven’t showed up in weeks.”

“Yes.”

“And this is fine?”

“Carolina’s trustworthy! She’s just kind of weird. Who isn’t a little bit weird?” Simmons said defensively.

“Kidnapping an entire squad levels of weird,” he said flatly.

“Hey, we don’t know, they might have gone willingly.”

“I found half finished meals in some of their rooms.”

“They shouldn’t even be eating in their rooms in the first place,” he sniffed. “And are you sure they weren’t just abandoned leftovers? All of Grif’s awful habits are rubbing off on them, which really just goes to show how important a good role model is--”

“I’m going to go and talk to Agent Carolina. Bye, good talk.”

“Oh, okay-- and he’s already gone. Damn fast mercenaries…”

* * *

 “They’re still in the base,” Agent Carolina assured him.

“In one piece, or…?” he asked after a long moment.

“They’re all fine!” she said. “Well, the first one who gets themselves spotted _isn’t._ That’s the whole point. We’re playing hide and seek.”

“For weeks?”

“Okay, so I might be a little iffy about the rules. I didn’t play a whole lot as a child.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Shut up. Anyways, this is their punishment, although officially on paper it’s just a harmless little training exercise. If they’re so confident about their stealthiness that they’ll risk getting in trouble for it, why not up the stakes a little bit? First Gold Team member who get’s caught by yours truly has to,” she grinned, _“spar_ with me. I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed. I’d thought one of them would have slipped up by now. I think they’re living in the camera blind spots.”

Locus stared at her for a moment. “Agent Carolina,” he finally said. “That’s the most ingenious, merciless punishment I’ve ever heard of.”

“Thank you,” she said smugly.

So, Locus came out of that conversation with a newfound respect for yet another Freelancer. It did however, unfortunately, complicate his revenge scheme a bit. It’d be a touch challenging to get vengeance on someone he couldn’t find, after all. Since Lieutenant Bitters was so desperately hiding because if he was found he’d be forced to _spar_ with Agent Carolina. It sure would be terrible for him if he was caught first.

… Oh.

Locus just got a fantastic idea.

* * *

 Bitters wondered why the Jaws theme just started playing in his head. 

 


	18. a rat with rabies would be seem good at diplomacy in comparison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus enacts his plan to doom Bitters. Gold Team loves it.

His plan would only work if Bitters was the first one to be found (said plan being revenge-by-Carolina). But how would he even find Bitters? All of Gold Team had managed to evade capture for weeks thanks to pure self preservation as motivation. After some thinking it came to him like someone turning on a light bulb, his plan to bring off his plan: turn that self preservation against them. It was devious. It was perfect. And best of all, it was low effort on his part. This whole held-captive-by-the-Reds thing has been the closest thing he’s had to a vacation in _decades._ He’ll almost be sad to see it end-- except, no, he won’t, _at all._

Locus started off plan: Self Preservation Fail by getting himself a large plate of flapjacks. This would work because no one else in the base had a single flapjack, because it was nowhere close to flapjack day. _He_ had managed to get his hand on some flapjacks because he was cunning and resourceful and okay he might have threatened the cook a little bit. For some reason he suspected that wasn’t the reason she’d given in in the end though. It might have had something to do with the fact that she winked at him and called him pretty boy a lot.

Anyways. He had the only flapjacks in the base. Step two, find a fairy secluded part of the base that wasn’t in the direct sight of a camera, and sit down to eat. With a magazine (Vogue, as he’d stolen/borrowed it from Donut), so he had an excuse to be distracted from his food and just let it lie there, tantalizing and still warm and--

Locus’ hand shot out and grabbed Grif’s reaching arm, all without him averting his eyes from the article about the top five ways to please your man with electricity (SHOCK him with your knowledge!!!) that he was skimming at the time. Still got it. He recognized some torture methods from his IRT sessions in tip two and four. He checked the author of the article. Cindi Sugar. He didn’t realize that there was a font that let you put hearts instead of dots over your i’s. He should recommend it to Donut, and probably vet Cindi Sugar’s (that couldn’t possibly be a real name) background, see if she wasn’t some sort of former operative trying poorly to pass as a normal human being--

“Um,” Grif said, an octave higher than usual.

Right, plan Self Preservation Fail. That was still a thing.

“I’m not here to turn you in to Agent Carolina, Grif,” he said with a threatening rumble that implied that that could change at any moment. “I’m here to _help_ you.” As a side effect, but hey, he’d use it.

“Help me?” he said. “Okay, here’s an idea, help Carolina find a fucking hobby.”

“I think this _is_ her hobby.”

“Shit.” Grif’s shoulders slumped.

“You and your squad have been doing well until now, surviving and hiding for so long,” he said. “But your mistake has been in thinking only short term, living from moment from moment. Tunnel vision. If you’d try calming down and looking at the bigger picture of the problem, then you’d realize that the answer is simple.” _And brutal._

Grif narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “Oh?”

Locus paused to think over his words for a moment. “Are any other G-- Orange Team members here?” Diplomacy was important at this juncture, and he’d only ever been good at that in comparison to Felix. A rat with rabies would be seem good at diplomacy in comparison to Felix.

“... I think we can trust him guys,” Grif said, and suddenly orange, yellow, and gold accented soldiers were melting seamlessly out from the shadows of the surroundings.

“Jesus,” Locus couldn’t help but saying.

“We’re the stealthiest fucking squad on Chorus, and we have a miserable fucking life,” one of them said.

Locus started examining them, trying to see if one of them Bitters. He wasn’t there. Good.

“So, what’s your ingenious plan?” Grif asked with more than just a hint of skepticism.

Locus decided just to throw the apple of discord into Gold Team and turn the metaphorical pack of wolves against each other already.

“The sooner one of you is found, the rest of you can be safe and go back to your normal lives.”

And just like that, Carolina’s game of hide and seek went from Gold Team vs Carolina to Gold Team vs Gold Team. Locus shuddered at the abrupt change of atmosphere in the room brought on by the single sentence he’d spoken. Power was sort of _delicious._ He could see why people got addicted.

“Privates!” Grif barked sternly, and Locus narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t predicted that Grif would try and defuse the situation and keep the team together, but then again he didn’t know Grif as well as some of the other Reds, mostly thanks to Carolina’s “training exercise” keeping him occupied. Would he be able to do it? He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t thought he’d even try to in the first place and he’d been wrong there, apparently. Locus tensed, readying himself to punch the sim trooper in the throat the second he started sounding persuasive.

Grif went on, “I _order_ you not sacrifice me!”

Locus blinked.

“I am stone cold serious here guys, I _will_ abuse my powers to punish you for any sort of mutiny! Go for someone more powerless!”

“Like a Lieutenant, for example,” he said, forcing himself to recover from the emotional whiplash Grif has just unknowingly dealt him. “How many lieutenants do you have, now again? Just the one? Well then, the choice is clear. Lieutenant Bitters will have to take one for the team, whether he wants to or not.” He definitely wouldn’t want to, but that couldn’t be less relevant to anyone in the room, clearly.

“Um,” one of the privates spoke up nervously. “Why Bitters?”

Except for this guy, apparently.

“Shut up Matthews, don’t question it,” Grif said, pouncing on having someone that wasn’t him being suggested for the position as a sacrificial lamb. Which was reasonable, considering that a strong argument could be made for the fact that he was the one to blame for the whole mess the team found themselves in in the first place.

“Yeah Matthews,” Locus said. “Don’t question it.” The private cringed. Ah, peer pressure. The popular kid’s best friend.

“Well then, here’s your orders,” Grif said authoritatively. “Hunt down Bitters and toss him in front of some cameras or whatever, and then the rest will sort itself out.”

“Yes, sir!” came the unusually energetic reply from Gold Team. Probably grateful that none of them had been singled out for sacrificing-duty, and too afraid about changing that with any sort of dissent. No one really noticed Matthews’ voice wavering a touch when usually it was peppy enough to make up for the whole squad’s lack of luster, including his captain. No one really noticed Matthews in general, usually.

They certainly didn’t notice him as he sneaked off earlier than the others. 

"Can I have these flapjacks, by the way?" 

"You're already eating them." 

"That's a yes." 


	19. the fucking kool aid man to shriek cancer statistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus cracks open a cold one with the boys, and Matthews and Bitters hang out in a vent. It ends in tears.

“We should do things like this together more often, Locus,” Grif said, cracking open a beer can with a quiet hiss.

“Betray your subordinates for our own benefit?” he asked.

“Sure,” he said after a long pull from the beer can and a satisfied sigh. “And the drinking of booze too.”

“I wasn’t sure how thoroughly I should bait my trap,” he explained.

“Shit man, are you telling me if I’d waited it out some you would’ve broken out the good shit?”

“What is the good shit.”

“You know.” Grif placed the back of two of his fingers to his lips, held slightly apart, and inhaled, held his hand away from his face and then exhaled. He looked around them shiftily before leaning in and whispering, _“Cigarettes.”_

Grif froze for a moment, and Locus followed suit. They sat there for a moment in a silence that was anticipatory.

“Phew,” Grif broke the silence and leaned back against the wall. “Sometimes I wonder if Simmons has, like, a sixth sense or something. I’m kinda surprised he didn’t burst through the wall,” he tapped the wall they were leaning against with the back of his knuckles for emphasis, “like he was the fucking kool aid man to shriek cancer statistics at me. As if it isn’t hard enough to find cigarettes on a planet that’s been embroiled in war for, like, decades? I’m actually not super sure about the timeline, it gets kind of confusing and vague and even self contradictory sometimes. Have you ever noticed that?”

“Captain,” a soldier that had _not_ been there only a moment ago said, and Locus kind of hates this squad. “There’s an issue.”

Grif groaned, banging the back of his head against the wall softly. “Of course there is. There _always_ is. Okay, lay it on me, Wick.”

“We can’t find Bitters.”

“We know where he sleeps.”

“He’s not there.”

“Maybe he’s out food hunting or peeing?”

“He wasn’t on for food hunting until Tuesday, and Bitters never works unless he has to. And it’s been too long for a piss break.”

“Fuuuuck.” Grif pinched the bridge of his nose. “He must’ve found out about our plan.”

“Do you think he has us bugged?” Locus asked, alarmed.

“Pfft, no,” Grif said. “He had no reason to suspect this, not everyone’s a paranoid wreck like you mercenaries and Freelancers.”

He was being grouped together with the Freelancers now? Weird.

“My bet is that Matthews was in the audience,” he went on.

“Who?”

“Bitters’ boyfriend.” He turned to his soldier. “I mean, right? It’s super obvious, right?”

“Totally.” The soldier nodded in agreement.

“Why,” Locus asked, “didn’t you account for the fact that the sacrifice’s _boyfriend_ heard about our plans?”

“You know how your mind doesn’t really register your nose even though it's in your line of sight the entire time? Matthews is like the human equivalent of that. He’s almost _always_ there.”

“He just likes company,” the soldier weakly defended his teammate. “And attention…” he added more quietly to himself.

“Well, maybe we should just use someone el--”

“Searching for Bitters while hiding from Carolina might seem daunting,” Locus swiftly interrupted him before he could ruin all of his plans. “But we have to keep in mind that they can only go places that you can go. Now they aren’t just being hunted by the most skilled surviving Freelancer in existence, but the squad that knows them the best and has a specialization in hiding.” A specialization they had earned by desperately dodging work and responsibility, but still. “They’re at an extreme disadvantage. They’re outnumbered as _hell._ Oh, and you can add the most skilled surviving mercenary to your side as well.”

Grif gave him a careful look. “Locus…” Was he onto him? “Hunting people isn’t your hobby _too,_ is it?”

Locus relaxed. “It just somehow appeals to paranoid wrecks.” This was a lie. Locus prefered infiltration to hunting. See, he had normal hobbies.

“Whatever.” Grif turned away. “Wick, get _all_ of Orange Team looking for Bitters, and spread the word that Matthews isn’t to be trusted.”

“Yes sir.” The soldier lazily saluted his captain and then faded back into the shadows. Orange was a bright color, what the fuck.

“What are you going to do with Matthews when you find him?” Locus asked.

“I dunno.” Grif shrugged, standing up. “Give him a noogie or something.”

* * *

 

“Our team is full of assholes,” Bitters hissed from where he was hiding in a ventilation shaft from that very team.

“They’re just following orders,” Mathews said from behind him.

“Ugh, I bet Greenson and Prince have already started arguing about how they’re gonna split my food stash,” he muttered resentfully. “The _bastards.”_

“Oh come on, I’m sure they wouldn’t…” Matthews paused, clearly thinking it over. “I’ll buy you some new twinkies,” he said instead.

“And they seem a little too _eager,_ don’t they?” His voice dropped to a whisper as a trio of Goldies jogged past. “I haven’t seen some of those fuckers jogging without a gun pointed at their backs in years.”

“Um, well,” Matthews struggled to defend his teammates. He had to do that a lot, as the token try-hard. “Don’t worry, they give up really easily!” He decided to act like Bitters hadn’t just spoken for lack of a good response. “We just have to hold out until lunch time, and after that they’ll take their post meal nap and forget all about us.”

“What the fuck,” Bitters whispered, glaring through the vent grate. “Is that _my_ twinkie bar Watson’s eating?”

“Wait, what?” Matthews asked.

“It is!”

“Oh no,” Matthews said, horrified. Bitters was gratified that he was taking this seriously. “They’re snacking while they’re patrolling. They’re in this for the long haul!”

“Wait,” he said. “So how long do we have to hide in this vent shaft?”

“Not for much longer,” an unearthly voice said from behind them. Matthews and Bitter screamed. The voice waited pragmatically for them to be done before it continued. It took a little while. “I found them,” it said, presumably speaking into a comm.

“Good work, Locus,” came Captain Grif’s tinny voice from behind them. “Bring ‘em in.”

“Roger that. Your Captain is _very_ disappointed in you two.”

Bitters doubted it. Matthews burst into tears.

“Well, that was just cruel,” Bitters said.

“... Sorry.”


	20. demented murderous green genie monkey pawing his way to vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif consoles Matthews, Bitters isn't consoled at all, and Locus and Lopez have a chat.

“Captain, please don’t do this!” Matthews pleaded. 

“Don’t worry Matthews, we’re not giving  _ you  _ to Carolina,” Grif consoled him as he took the private’s helmet off, his arms held in place by two Gold team members. 

“But I don’t want you to give Bitters to Agent Carolina either!” 

“Tough,” Locus said menacingly, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. 

Matthews sniffled and Grif sighed and patted his head a little. “He isn’t going to die or anything, Matthews,” he said, but Locus had the perfect view to see that he’d crossed his fingers behind his back. “And I’m not mad at you.” 

“R--really, captain?” he asked tremulously. 

“Really,” he said. “But also I’m gonna give you a noogie for this.” 

“Aw.” 

Somewhere in the distance, Locus could hear Bitters scream as he was shoved into public view. The rest of Gold Team (with the exception of the sacrifice’s boyfriend) cheered. Starting a witch hunt had gone _ great _ for him. He’d gotten revenge on Bitters and he could leave nowwwwww-- wait he just thought of something else he had to do before he could leave! Yeah! He… had to… repay Lopez! Yes! Lopez had fixed his armor for him, and in return Locus had done nothing but threaten his life. Well, the latter had led to the former, but still. Couldn’t leave before he’d repaid that debt! 

Locus left Gold Team to their celebration to track down his prey-- find the person whom he owed a great debt to, he meant.

* * *

 

Lopez wonders if there’s some sort of robot equivalent of a heart attack when Locus steps out of the shadows to loom several inches away from his face. Well, several moments after Locus does that. He’s a bit preoccupied with thoughts like OH GOD I’M GOING TO DIE at first to wonder about his “glorious leader’s” skills in assembling a robot kit with very careful foolproof instructions that he most likely immediately spilled his strawberry yoohoo on before ignoring it and oh god that was probably it, a wire had been loose in his chest this entire time and--

“You aren’t going to die,” Locus interrupted Lopez’s panicking. “I was just wondering about what I could do for you.” 

That was the most thinly veiled threat Lopez has heard all morning. 

_ “Is there something wrong with the armor?” _ he asked. Maybe that was why Locus was bothering him. Yeah, that was probably it. But he could’ve sworn everything was perfect when he was done with it, how was it fucked up already? 

_ The Red idiots got to it somehow, _ he decided. That was always a safe bet. 

“No,” Locus said, and then paused. He narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any reason to think there’s something wrong with the armor?” 

_ “No!” _ he backpedaled desperately.  _ “Just making small talk! What about that weather, huh?” _ God, not being able to talk to anyone for almost his entire existence had really done a number on his ability to have a normal conversation, huh? At least he was good at snarking to himself in the background. A useful skill, he was sure. 

“It sure is… weather,” Locus agreed. Well, at least he was in equally undersocialized company. “But is there anything I can do for you to repay you for fixing it for me?” 

_ “You mean in addition to not killing me, right?” _ Lopez confirmed anxiously. He wasn’t in a hurry to exchange being alive for a new wrench or something. That he would presumably be then beaten to death with by Locus, as if he were a demented murderous green genie monkey pawing his way to vengeance and escape. 

“Yes, in addition to and not instead of.” Locus nodded. 

Lopez thought about it for a moment. To be honest, he had enough wrenches at the moment. He didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep, surely he had hobbies… he just couldn’t think of them at the moment. 

_ “Uhhhhh,”  _ he said uncertainly. 

“You know what,” Locus interrupted him, “I think I’ll just surprise you.” 

And then he walked away before Lopez could protest. 

Never mind.  _ That  _ had been the most thinly veiled threat he’d heard all morning. 


	21. and blood you shall get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus and Lopez have a chat, and Bitters and Carolina don't.

If in doubt, get them a dinner and a show, his mother used to say before she one day mysteriously disappeared from a locked room and was promptly never seen or heard from again. Well, robots can’t eat, but he’s sure as hell got Lopez a show. (He got a present to make up for the lack of dinner, but he’s saving that one for later.) 

“Ladies, gentlemen, and others!” Palomo announces far too loudly into his microphone. Does he not realize that those are so that you _ don’t  _ have to raise your voice? 

_ “Which idiot gave  _ that  _ idiot a microphone?”  _ Lopez asks, but it seems more like a despairing, rhetorical sort of question directed at the universe at large than Locus in particular, so he ignores it with a sense of relief to focus on the show instead. 

_ “Especially  _ the ladies.” Palomo somehow audibly winks. It is disturbingly off putting and he almost certainly learned it from Captain Tucker. 

“GET ON WITH IT ALREADY!” a bloodthirsty spectator cries out from the back. Locus can’t tell who it is in particular because he hasn’t bothered learning any unimportant people’s names, and also because there are a lot of people sitting behind them. All of them, in fact. Locus is a very good haggler and got the best tickets available. The trick is to keep your tone very flat, your stare very flat, your face very flat, and your gun very noticeable. He doesn’t know why more people just do that. 

“Okay, okay, fine! So! We all know why we’re all here, right?” Palomo asks the crowd. 

_ “No,” _ Lopez says. 

“BLOOD,” the crowd says. 

Growing up in a brutal, encouraged civil war may have done a bit of a number on the population of Chorus. Oops. He’ll send them a fruit basket or something. How many, though? How big was the remaining population? He hoped the government recovered enough for censuses to become a thing again soon. Statistics were just so handy. 

“And blood you shall get! Welcome all to the match of the century! In one corner,” Palomo gestured and a spotlight promptly turned on and pointed at one corner of the “stage”, revealing a familiar figure that was desperately struggling against the restraining hands of several people clothed in all black like stagehands, “the one, the only, lieutenant of Gold Team, Antoine Bitters! Weighing in at,” Palomo does a doubletake at the chart he’s holding, “holy fuck, a _ lot  _ of pounds! He’s desperate, he’s crafty, and he’s feeling feisty! Unfortunately his team couldn’t be here tonight to support him because they’re all too busy either celebrating their newfound freedom they bought with his soon-to-be-shed blood and tears or running the betting pools on this very match. So give him an extra loud round of applause, audience, for our dear underdog! If he somehow manages to win the people who were crazy enough to risk money on him are gonna be filthy, stinking  _ rich!”  _

The crowd roars, some with the blood pounding insanity Locus recognizes from observing some particularly passionate football fans, and others with laughter at the very idea of Bitters actually winning. 

“And in the other!” Palomo gestures, and another spotlight comes on to reveal Bitters’ opponent. “Carolllllinaaaaa!” 

The crowd fucking loses it. Locus did not realize that Agent Carolina had fangirls, but she apparently has a _ fanclubs _ worth of them. 

_ “Holy shit,” _ Lopez says.  _ “How did this happen?”  _

“You really don’t keep up with gossip around here, do you?” 

_ “How would I do that? Ask?” _ Lopez asks, sounding somehow even flatter than usual at the end there. 

“Fair. Okay, so here’s what’s happened: Lieutenant Bitters bumped into me in the hallway, was mildly rude to me, and so I capitalized on Agent Carolina having a bone to pick with Gold Team to get my vengeance on him.” 

_ “... He bumped into you so you forced him into a cagematch with a Freelancer?”  _ Locus may not be doing a super great job here convincing Lopez that he’s a super nice person who won’t murder him over a perceived slight, no really. 

“I’m not going to let people push me around any longer,” he says, and can’t help a slight upwards twitch of his mouth. 

Lopez has nothing to say to that. They wait the wild cheering out, which takes a while. Carolina cracks her knuckles and starts doing some casual stretches, which only spurs them on. 

“--okay, okay, we get it, of course she’s super cool! She wears aqua! Aqua’s objectively the coolest color. But I digress! We’re here for a reason, and it’s not to fangirl over Carolina!” 

“SPEAK FOR YOURSELF,” someone in the crowd shouts. 

“Do you guys want to watch her kick a dude’s face in or not!?” 

The crowd enthusiastically agrees with this. 

“Great! Then I’d like to introduce you all to the last person involved in this fight before we get started. Everyone say hello to…  _ John Elizabeth Andersmith, OUR REFEREE FOR THE EVENING!!!”  _

A very tall, buff young man in a stripey shirt drops on top of the gigantic cage in the center of the room, presumably from the rafters up by the roof. Holy shit, that was a long fall, but he lands on his feet and greets the crowd with a grave, unruffled nod. 

The crowd likes this. 

Palomo let's go from where he’d been clinging to the side of the cage to drop onto the floor. It’s a much smaller drop than Andersmith just experienced, but he stumbles and falls onto the floor anyways. He gets up, brushing himself surreptitiously and acting like nothing happened. The crowd likes this even more. 

“On three,” he says. “One.” 

The crowd immediately starts chanting with him, counting down to the fight. “Two!” 

The sound of them is overwhelming, a wall of noise. “THREE!” 

The stagehands release Bitters, hurriedly rush out of the latch in the cage, and slams it in his face and snaps a padlock shut on it. Bitters turns around. Carolina is already approaching. No; that makes it sound too casual, too small. She descends on him like a tidal wave. 

What follows is some of the most brutal ten minutes Locus has ever experienced, and he’s lived a very brutal life. 

_ “Is this also a veiled threat?” _ Lopez asks. 

Locus looks at him curiously, trying to read someone with no instinctive body language or a face that was capable of expressions in vain. “What?” he asks. “Lopez. I never make veiled threats.” 

Lopez somehow manages to project relief without moving a muscle. He doesn’t even have muscles, in fact. Locus turns back to the fight, satisfied. 

“If it ever occurred to me to kill you, I’d just do it without giving you any warning,” he reassures him. 


	22. IT’S NOT A BOMB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lopez and Locus end their not-a-date, and Lopez tries out his gift.

“So,” Locus says at the end of their night out. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

 _“Yes,”_ he says immediately, just on the off chance (BIG chance) that he’s just lying and he _isn’t_ free to be honest, he _does_ have to answer a certain way. He thinks for a moment, and admits to himself that the answer was mostly true anyways, despite Locus’ whole… Locus-ness. _“I particularly liked the part where that guy handed the stupid lieutenant a taser through the bars.”_

“I believe that was Private Matthews.” Locus nodded. “True love is beautiful.”

 _“It evened the match some for just a bit,”_ Lopez sort of granted him.

“It was kind of the referee to allow it.”

_“Although it did set the precedent allowing Kimball to hand Carolina a chair.”_

“Still not sure how she managed that through the bars.”

_“She had the keys. She runs this place.”_

“And she allowed this?” Locus raised an incredulous eyebrow.

_“Chorus still doesn’t have cable.”_

“Ah.”

 _“Well,”_ Lopez said, slowing his walk. _“This is my room.”_

Locus looked at the public garage they’d stopped by. “... Huh.”

 _“Yeah. So.”_ Lopez fumbled for a bit for a send off that wouldn’t make the whole thing feel like a date. _“Debt repaid. The transaction is completed?”_

“Not quite,” Locus said, and his hand went for something strapped to the small of his back, out of Lopez’s sight.

Fuck.

Locus’ hand returned, now holding… some sort of brown blocky metal thing.

Fuck?

“Show and a gift,” he said, holding the thing out towards Lopez. “It was admittedly just a backup I had that I spray painted brown, but I think that you’ll like it. It goes in at that slot by your spine-- here.” He turned to show Lopez his profile and held his own hand over a certain patch of his spine as demonstration.

Lopez stared at it without taking it. _“Is it a self destruct--”_

“No, it’s not a self destruct device.”

_“Is it a remotely activated bo--”_

“No, it’s not a remotely activated bomb.”

_“Is it a time delayed bo--”_

“No, it’s not a time delayed bomb.”

_“Is it a randomly exploding--”_

“IT’S NOT A BOMB.”

Lopez shut up and accepted the gift to calm him down.

“Here,” Locus said. “Let me show you how to use it.”

* * *

 

Grif was celebrating his newfound freedom. No more eating stale, cold eggos he found abandoned somewhere in the darkness, hair greasy with skipped showers, teeth covered in a layer of plaque so thick you could scratch a solid line through it with a fingernail.

The eggos were microwaved now. And he’d flipped the light switch on.

Life was good.

He tore a big bite out of his eggo as he watched the knock off version of Vine the determined teens of Chorus had cobbled together, trying to figure out whether he felt smug or guilty about the slow motion chairing Vine-Bitters was suffering through on a six second loop for his (admittedly far too large) amusement.

The nothing that had been standing next to his chair a second ago abruptly became Lopez, shouting something in incomprehensible flat Spanish.

Grif choked on his eggo and Lopez became nothing again, leaving only his malicious laughter behind.

He swore to god he’d find the motivation to learn Spanish someday, even if it was just to learn that Lopez had just shouted _boo_ or some shit.

* * *

 

Simmons was rearranging armory again. He was trying to figure out how to apply the Dewey Decimal system to weaponry, having already used color coding, alphabetization, sorting by size, deadliness, year of make, and his subjective but obviously correct opinion about which weapons were the best ones (best: knives, worst: tanks. Sorry Sheila, but fuck tanks).

He was just carefully carrying a box of grenades to the other side of the room when Lopez shimmered to view right behind him, a newly installed stealth mod not standing out at all on his back thanks to a recent paint job.

Lopez raised his hands to clap them down on Simmons’ shoulders before he’d shout as loudly as he could, giving the asshole an attack. Possibly an actual heart attack, given what a ball of stress he was.

Lopez saw that Simmons was holding a box of grenades. He gave the robot equivalent of a sigh and shimmered back out of view, blending back in with his surroundings.

He’d just hit him some other day. It was fine. He wasn’t horribly disappointed at all.

He steals Simmons’ coffee on his way out, even though he doesn’t drink coffee. Or at all.

* * *

 

Lopez takes one step into Donut’s room and gets assaulted by a glitter trap that he insists is a fun surprise gift for Locus, because Donut is a scourge of darkness disguising himself in a pink crop top. At least he thinks that he was visited by a fabulous ghost anyways.

* * *

 

Sarge. His last chance at ending this on a high note. The most unpredictable one. The one he most wants to scare the living hell out of. _Sarge._

His bedroom’s trapped to hell and back, some of the boobie traps involving actual flamethrowers, so Lopez decides to get him while he’s out in public, even though Sarge has insisted that he’s always on guard for sneak attacks and Blue assassination plots.

Lopez was not made with stealth in mind. He is clunky, slow, thudding, and even in some cases creak. He doesn’t think his manufactures expected him to last this long; he certainly didn’t. But he has a stealth unit. But he is determined.

But Sarge has a powerful mix of tinnitus and failing old man hearing that he refuses to admit to.

Lopez creeps up on him while he’s got his head bent over some piece of machinery, fussing over and fiddling with it, focused and entirely distracted. Always alert his not so shiny metal ass.

He got as close as he dared, as slowly as he could stand. Paused, looking down at him. Braced himself for anything.

Dropped the camo.

Shouted.

Sarge started, dropped what he was holding, looked up at him with wide eyes, and immediately reached into a compartment on his armor. This was it. He was going to pull out a weapon and Lopez was going to end up without a body again. Fuck. Shit.

Sarge pulled out a crucifix instead.

“BEGONE DEMON!” he shouted hysterically, and Lopez swore to god he could feel some gears in his chest stutter and briefly jam.

Sarge threw the crucifix at him and it dinked off his helmet. Lopez had to bend over and support himself on his knees, but not due to the force of the blow, if it could even be called that.

“L--Lopez!? YOU SON OF A GUN!”

Can robots wheeze? Lopez has a feeling robots can wheeze.

One thing’s for certain: he _loves_ this present. And Locus? Is alright in his book.


	23. first instinct: panic, break someone’s neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus and Simmons have a friendly, chill, agenda-less chat, and hey, remember how Locus has a scalpel?

When Locus leaves his room one morning, someone throws a net at his head.

First instinct: panic, break someone’s neck.

Second instinct: realize that this is the flimsiest net ever created, probably home made.

Third instinct: give Simmons an unimpressed stare as he tears the net apart with his bare hands.

He goes for his third instinct. Simmons looks sheepish. Good.

“Sorry, now a whole lot of available materials here on Chorus, you know?”

Okay, so he’s sheepish about the net quality rather than throwing a net at Locus’ head before he’s even had his morning coffee. Fine.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asks.

“Sorry, it’s just that I wanted to talk to you in private so not in the mess hall, and you don’t have a Basebook account so I didn’t know how to contact you--”

“You know where my room is.”

“You told us all to never interrupt you while you were sleeping. You were very threatening.”

That had been a warning, actually. Locus is an… active sleeper. And he still has that scalpel on hand, so.

“Okay, but you could’ve caught me while I was leaving my room--”

“Exactly!”

 _“Not_ with a net, Simmons. That part wasn’t necessary.”

“Okay. Fine.” He sounds a little sulky. “But the net was well made, right? I mean, ignoring the quality of the materials, which shouldn’t reflect on the skills of the maker--”

“Did you just want to show off the net you made?”

 _“What?_ No! I-- I would never, that’d be pathetic, you-- Locus. About what I came to talk about with you?”

Smooth deflection, Simmons.

“Sure. What is it?”

“It’s about Sarge…”

Locus really wants his coffee. He hasn’t even had the time to come up with his new excuse-- reason for staying. A little longer. Just a bit. There’s probably a reason, definitely, yes.  “Yes?”

“You two sure seem to be-- getting along well.”

Locus thought about this.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

Locus thought about this a little longer.

“... I _am?”_

“Yes! He’s all-- he’s got nothing but positive things to say about you!”

“I hadn’t noticed? We’ve barely spoken.”

Simmons starts grumbling to himself. Locus has a feeling he just stepped into a minefield and he wants out.

“Look,” he tries, feeling like this is territory better suited for Felix than himself. Except no, he’d probably take this opportunity to _neg_ Simmons or something, ugh. He loved that shit. Focus. “I’m sure this is just because… I’m new! Yes. So I haven’t had the chance to fuck up or show him my flaws yet.” _Besides some apparently minor issues such as my willingness to commit planetary genocide and backstab my partner to death._

“... You think so?” Simmons asks hopefully.

“Yes,” Locus says as firmly and confidently as he can manage. “He may be temporarily dazzled by me, but he definitely loves you more.”

Simmons goes red and starts spluttering, waving his hands through the air in frantic negation. “That’s not--! I’m definitely not--” he laughs, nervous and high. “I’m not _jealous_ or anything, this isn’t an insecurity thing! I was just curious, is all! Just making conversation! I don’t need Dad-- _Sarge_ to love me! That would be extremely weird!”

Definitely not touching that. “Okay,” Locus says, hoping to mercifully smother this conversation to death as quickly as possible.

“Really!”

“I believe you.”

“It doesn’t seem like you do!”

“No, I do.”

“Are you sure!?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay! Bye then!” And Simmons then makes his speedy retreat, awkward, panicked smile melting off his face as he leaves. Poor guy. Locus will make sure to repress the conversation they just had as much as possible as a favor to him. Locus is pretty good at repression, if he does say so himself.

 _“So_ fascinating,” Grey breathes from behind him, and Locus almost has a heart attack. "God, just imagine what a deep dive his daddy issues are. I really do have to get around to psychoanalyzing him." 

“Dr. Grey,” he wheezes, resisting the urge to put a hand to his chest.

“Locus,” Grey says sweetly. “You wouldn’t happen to know where one of my missing scalpel’s have gone, would you? It just so happens to be my _favorite.”_

Of course she has a favorite scalpel. Of _course._


	24. my brain is a trash fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey helps Locus figure out some issues, and Red Team holds a meeting.

“Really?” Locus says, trying his best to exude nothing but mild curiosity as he tries to somehow suppress the urge to sweat. 

“You’re holding it, Locus,” she says, managing a much milder tone than he did. 

Locus looks down at his hand. Ah. So he is. Apparently he automatically arms himself when he feel threatened. Great. Thanks again for doing a fantastic job as always, brain. 

“The thing about that is,” he says, and then proceeds to say nothing else. 

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. It’s okay that he stole her scalpel? He feels a pang of hope. “What I’m about to do with you, we won’t need words. Only action.” 

The hope dies a swift death, as usual. 

“Wait!” he says. She raises an eyebrow at him. “What if… I gave you something you want as an apology?” 

“I want vengeance!” she says cheerily, and Locus fights his way through a shudder. He thinks frantically, and then recalls something she’d said earlier about Simmons. Daddy issues. 

“I could,” he lowers his voice enticingly, “let you psychoanalyze me.” 

Her breath catches. _ Bingo.  _

“But,” she said, wide eyed. “You’re _ so messed up.”  _

“My brain is a trash fire,” he agrees with her, shucking off his defensiveness about his mental state in an act of self preservation, like a fox in a trap gnawing its leg off. 

“A total garbage dump,” she says, fanning herself, blushing. 

“The psychological equivalent of a ten car pile up.” 

“Plus one full school bus.” 

“You want it, right?” 

“I want it _ so much.”  _

“So, it’s a deal then?” 

“Give me my scalpel back on top of it, and you’ve got it!” 

Locus hands her her scalpel back. 

“It’s  _ Christmas,”  _ she squeals delightedly. 

“Right, so I’ll just--” 

Her hands shoots out like a striking cobra and settles in a vice like grip around his arm. She smiles her extra sweet smile at him. “Didn’t you just schedule an appointment with me, Locus?” 

“... Can’t I at least go get my coffee first?” he asks with dismay. 

“Get them while they’re sleep deprived,” she sing song negates him, and starts dragging him towards her office. He’s a very large man and she’s a very small woman, but-- well. Locus has seen enough to know not to try and say no to her.

* * *

 

“So is there anything in particular you would like to discuss?” Grey asks, a notepad and pen in her hands. 

He’d prefer not to discuss anything at all, actually, so he just shakes his head. 

“Great!” She smiles. “Then let’s just start in on the ball of issues that is your relationship with the late Fe--” 

“Actually, now that I think about it,” he desperately interrupts her. Rather than looking annoyed at this, she looks pleased. (Like she’d planned it? No, she just looked pleased about everything was all.) “I… would like… to talk about…………” 

What would he like to talk about? 

Anything, if it meant he didn’t have to talk about Felix. 

“The Reds,” he decides, because they’re a safe subject. (They’re  _ safe.)  _

Grey somehow contrives to look even more pleased. 

“Wonderful! I was hoping we’d get to them actually-- it’s just _ fascinating _ how you keep coming up with paper thin excuses to yourself to put off leaving them.” 

Locus stiffens. “Pardon?” 

“I  _ said--” _

“No, I heard you, I just--”  _ how did you know? _ “--what makes you say that?” 

Hang on.  _ How did you know?  _ That was wrong. Obviously, that was wrong. 

“Body language, micro expressions, and educated guesses mostly.”

“Well, you’re mistaken. I am not staying here for them.” He wasn’t going to stay at all, in fact, as soon as he tied up all of his loose ends here. He just kept finding more of them, totally by accident. “We have no particularly strong bond.” 

“Oh, I beg the differ!” Grey disagrees with him like she  _ enjoys _ it. Locus narrows his eyes at her. “Your roommate arrangement with Donut seems to be going splendidly going off of all of the quality time you two seem to be spending with each other.” 

“Thats--” 

“Grif appears to still be overflowing with gratitude from you helping him out with Agent Carolina.” 

“That’s not--”

“There are rumours you took Lopez out on a _ date  _ yesterday.” 

“Now  _ hang on--” _

“You and Sarge seem to have a sort of father-son thing going on over there.” 

_ “Absolutely not--” _

“And why, I caught you having a very friendly, reassuring chat with Simmons just this morning!” 

Goddamnit, that one’s _ true.  _

“So,” she says after giving his damning silence a moment to really fester, rubbing it in his face. “What I want to know is, why?” 

“Why what?” 

“Why do you prefer the Reds over the Blues? It can’t be for their strange and silly personalities, the Blues have their fair share of that as well.”

Prefer is… a more neutral term that he can accept for now. And he  _ does  _ prefer the Reds over the Blues, doesn’t he? So it would probably be fine to admit to that, at least. Not that any of that other stuff was true. 

“The Reds… fought for me,” he says slowly, deducting his reasoning as he speaks, hearing and comprehending it for the first time along with Grey. “With the Blues. Back when they caught me. And they didn’t give up until they won me, unlike the Blues. So  _ they’re  _ the ones that deserve me. Which is why I…” (am so damned obsessed with them)  _ “prefer  _ them.” 

Oh, he realizes. Oh. 

“And why you’re staying for them?” Grey asks leadingly. 

“Yes,” he says before he can think better of it. Goddamnit. He can’t take it back now, can he? 

Grey beams at his defeat. 

“Thank you so much for your honesty!” she gushes. “Now, about Felix…”

_ Oh god. _

* * *

 

The next day, Locus comes to the Red Team strategy meeting. He doesn’t wear his scar covering makeup. 

“Hey,” Grif says, silently offering him his chip bag, and he doesn’t mention anything about it. 

“Morning, Locus!” Donut greets him, sitting down next to him, and he doesn’t mention anything about it. 

“Hi,” Simmons says with a nervous smile and a shy little wave, the most relaxed around him that he’s ever been (because of their conversation yesterday morning?), and he doesn’t mention anything about it. 

“BOO!” Lopez shouts, dropping his camo which Locus had seen coming from a mile away because that’s just the kind of person he is, making Simmons shriek and almost faint into Grif’s arms, and he doesn’t mention anything about it. 

“Good to see you, men! Now, the reason why I called this super top secret Red meeting: the Blues are clearly up to something diabolical again,” Sarge says, whipping a sheet off of a huge chart scribbled over with crayon drawings of blue stick figures bleeding blue blood and Sarge holding his shotgun up in a victory pose, and he doesn’t mention anything about it. 

_ Goddamnit,  _ he thinks tiredly, and just accepts it.

* * *

 

“Hey,” Captain Tucker greets him, leaning against the gym room wall, arms casually crossed. Locus gives him a look, and then goes back to his weightlifting. “So.” 

Locus sighs through his nose. 

Captain Tucker continues without his input or encouragement. “You haven’t tried to escape or murder anyone or whatever, which I totally didn’t see coming. You actually seem kind of… cool? Not cool cool, you kind of remind me of if an awkward nerd was super jacked, but you know. You seem fine. Okay. I didn’t expect it all but… I’ve gotta admit, you’re one of us now.” 

Locus puts down his weights. Walks over to Captain Tucker. Doesn’t even have to try to loom, god this man is short. Leans in real close. Captain Tucker is starting to look a bit nervous all of a sudden, a hand slipping into his pocket where he’s probably got a weapon of some sort. 

“Red Team’s best,” he says. 

Captain Tucker looks at him stunned silence for a moment before he abruptly puffs up. “Wait, actually, you know what!? I change my mind! You aren’t cool at all, in any way!” 

Locus smiles, and goes back to his workout. He’s fine with not being cool, because he isn’t. 

He’s a Red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> YALL CHECK OUT THIS GLORIOUS [FANART](http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/160346435502/art-for-primtheamazings-fic-green-is) CREATRIXANIMI MADE OF MY FIC! Ahh, this is such an honor, so cool! This is my first fic-inspired fanart, and it's beautiful!
> 
> It happened [again!!!](http://quetzalcactus.tumblr.com/post/160852583475/primtheamazing-bc-every-time-i-see-that-green-is) This time by the wonderful quetzalcactus! This fandom is clearly magical.
> 
> Speaking of quetzalcactus check out this goddamn magical illustration they made of [Caboose carrying Locus.](http://quetzalcactus.tumblr.com/post/161317418490/primtheamazing-it-makes-more-sense-for-him-to) Stealth hug!


End file.
